My first ever attempt at writing a hypersigil turned into this mini story about becoming trapped in one:
I’ve been riding the Big Dipper here in this fairground for weeks. I know every dip on this ride, every shudder and plunge. All I remember is that I wanted my life to get better, and it would only improve if I switched to the carousel.
I took a leap from the Big Dipper to the carousel, flying through the air with my straw-blonde hair and long cut-up dress streaming out behind me. When you launch out into the pure air you give yourself over to the buoyant winds. Anything can happen in mid-air, but usually it doesn’t – not to me. Usually I land exactly where I plan to go. No-one saw me jump; why can only sparrows see me?
As I climb on the carousel and mount a horse, I notice there are horseshoes printed all over the poles and floor like a trademark. Round and round I go on the carousel, merging into the past and future as I spin around. All times meet in the pit of dust churned up by the carousel as it spins.
Why can only sparrows see that now I’m riding the Big Dipper and the carousel both at the same time? That’s what I knew would make the difference, yet I don’t know where I am now as it all rushes past in a blur.
I stand and eat a toffee apple in the deserted fairground and wave- to whom?