Once upon a time, there was a filly who turned her back on the wilderness. The wolves of disapproval had scarred her, and she was afraid to run alone. She did not trust herself. She budded a safe mask, and that mask grew legs and became a mannikin. Eventually that mannikin took control and put a bridle on the filly. Fear and pain fed the mannikin, making it strong and ruthless.

When encountering the filly and her controller, most thought that the mannikin was their core self. Eventually the filly believed the same. After all, everyone has a “wild side”, a “creative persona”, do they not? You coax it out and harness it – that’s what everyone does. But it is the control, the normal – that’s what’s really-real. How else? Surely she was not so different.

The stories that the townspeople told about truly wild creatures enforced this belief. The filly was gentle, loving, and curious. Certainly she loved to run – but she’d never bitten or kicked, never harmed a soul. She just liked to nose through the flowers and bathe in the creeks, alone with the butterflies and the song of birds.

The filly grew into a mare, and her loving nature took great pleasure in seeing her gifts shared with the people around her. Oh certainly – they were bridled, made sensible, delivered on schedule – but they were appreciated. She grew tired, weak, and her hooves cracked. The city drained her, for her source was in the wild. The mare began to dream.

Her dreams took her to the pools of truth. She saw her whole self, and how much was mare, and how much mannikin. She saw that the mannikin was not real, just a mask. It was not in her to be “coaxed” or “offered outings” – she was the center. Truth broke the mannikin’s facade of control – for now the mare knew that she was far stronger.

So she kept on with her deliveries, now lost in thought. When the winds blew, and the mare lifted her head to the hills, the mannikin yanked at the bridle, desperate to keep the deliveries on-schedule. Desperate to keep control.

What will the mare do? Will she return to her wild nature, or will she allow the Controller to shrink her?

And so. Will she toss her head and throw the mannikin and that bridle into the bushes, trample her down and return to the hills?

Will she let her gifts come from the wilderness as they ought? Will she let the wind flow through her hair as she dances with the storm?

This remains to be seen, but one thing is true – the mare knows now that what holds her back is of her own making.