The Little Tin Soldier.

Aching, tired, frail. Toes pointed, tutu crinkled. Her dispair was palpable, but not to the other toys. From the height of the paper castle on the mantletop, they only saw her as a flawless, glistening figure. A mandate of sorts, an aphrodite. They waved as they went about their nightly business, and she would twirl in response. But she was only paper. Keenly, this thought provoked her. Too frail, unable to move, easily hurt. She couldn't even cry.

Then there was the jack in the box. He scared her. His hold over her was arbitrary, yet binding. She couldn't move, he could. She wanted out, he didn't. She blanked out very often, thinking of nothing, not wanting to think. And for the longest time, she had survived like this. It was practical. Survival. She spent her time watching, and being watched by a pair of sinister eyes. Days went by, and this gnawing irritation of the self, of the world, of the jack in the box soon became nothing more than a baseline of life. His presence was pervasive. He took from her what she refused to give. He violated her love, he stole from her. She felt dirtied, torn, and completely tainted with a darkness that seemed to seep like sticky tar into her. One day, she thought, it will be a mercury that kills me.

Sing once again with me
Our strange duet
My power over you grows stronger yet
And though you turn from me to glance behind
The Phantom of the Opera is there
Inside your mind

She soon forgot the times before she came into this toyroom, the times of great wonder- eyes bright; discovery imminent.

Her Raoul came in the form of a broken man. Finally, she thought. Someone who understands my pain. The one legged tin soldier was just as poor as she. Although strong in body, he could not move unless moved. So they stood there and stared at each other for a long, long time. He, convinced of his love for her, and she, wondering whether he could love a torn, crinkled paper figurine. The jack in the box, feeling as if he had been sidelined, asserted his springs as much as he could and rattled all his jester's bells. But that is all he was- a fool. A jester. However, as circumstance would have it, the wind changed, and the little tin soldier left with little warning the next day.

She did not understand it. She could not. She faulted herself for being unhappy, for having persisted in something she should not have accepted so easily. So she put aside her hope and concentrated on her pointed toes once again. To her, naught changed, and everything returned once again to square one. To the jack in the box, the beginnings of a rage for attention had just begun.

You have come here,
for one purpose, and one alone
Since the moment I first heard you sing,
I have needed you with me,
to serve me,
to sing,
for my music...

But she did not need him at all. Even from the start. Only murderers have use for pure poison.

It was in the little tin soldier's second appearance that she began to wonder if her pent up hope and her broken self should let themselves go. Will he stay long this time, she wondered? He didn't. More tradgedy, more irony- into the fire he fell, eyes blazing, heart steady.

So she jumped.

The death of the self is never a pleasant journey. Yet, in refinement, there is a freedom, a cutting off from the past unpleasantness, past hopelessness. The unchaining of the soul is subsequent to the death of self. There is to be no partial yielding to the tender of the furnace. For he knows his trade and the refiner's fire will burn true every time.

9 This third I will bring into the fire;
I will refine them like silver
and test them like gold.
They will call on my name
and I will answer them;
I will say, 'They are my people,'
and they will say, 'The LORD is our God.' "
Zechariah 13:9

In gratitude- because I am naught and He is all.