Member-only story
Tipping Into The New
And losing the old
Janus looks back and knots his face. Quickly the Deity of Transitions turns back around to face ahead because, gods know, he did not expect this last year to have gone off the rails so badly. Shrouded and indistinct, the future has to be better. It has to.
The molting hasn’t begun yet, but he can feel the first tickles. He shouldn’t have any memory of what that tickle means but after millennia there is a hovering dreamlike association that is not entirely unpleasant. As each year wanes, a curious sort of déjà vu sets in, a dream-like familiarity with what’s in his head even if he can’t recall having these specific thoughts before.
The lack of control begins to chew at him around the summer solstice. He can only look on as time crowds up to its annual flip. It is positively tragic that once the molting has stripped away the old ineffective observer what emerges will believe all over again in limitless possibility.
Janus reaches back to carefully pick through the spent leaves of the year ending to find the moment it all began to shred. The molting may strip away memory of what is past but before he is forced out of this skin he can recall with absolute precision every day, every hour of those days, the rise of every moon and the fall of every sun.
