Do you ever think about how we’ll never know if the minotaur could’ve learned to speak? To communicate in any way? What kind of a life could he have lived if he wasn’t torn away from his mother and tossed into a prison for the crime of being born? Do you think of the stories that describe the infant as “ferocious” as if that excuses what was done to him?
Do you think about how the only names we know him by are ones taken from his jailer, the man who locked up a child and sent countless others to their doom? At the very worst he was a pawn caught up in the crossfire of an angry god and a foolish king. But truly he was just hurt. Abused. Neglected.
The prince of a kingdom that feared and reviled him.
And just sometimes, my reality has mornings and daylight. It’s filled with fallen leaves, purple mist, endless pink grass, tea, long walks, books, imaginary worlds and gentle love. The world is what you make of it.
