The Lion King

You know how apple juice is a feeling?

It's more than a flavor, it's more shoving a straw through a little circle of foil,

it's more than a cardboard-boxed part of your childhood.

It's something you feel in your stomach every time you take a sip.


The Lion King is that feeling for me.

Mufasa was my mentor, my father, my (in the end, somewhat literal) Northern Star.

He was there to silence the hyenas whenever they laughed,

to give me some bigger pawprints to step into,

to be the first one to remind me long after I had forgotten that, 

"Everything the light touches is our kingdom." 


He was the king, 

and Simba his prodigal prince,

the one true heir to the throne, the little boy who didn't know that his succession meant his father's death,

who spent his childhood like me, mindlessly chasing his tail, not yet knowing about what's necessary to complete the circle of life.


22 years later and I still cry each time our daddy dies.


Nala, my sweet Nala,

you're not naive, you're not like me, 

you're always thinking on your feet.

You're different from Simba and I;

you don't have nearly as much to learn.


Scar -

I've met people like you,

too cunning, too clever,

too damn bad that it all went to waste.

The twinkle in your eye is false and your smile was made to deceive,

but I watched you kill your own brother out of nothing other than jealousy,

and I know how pathetic you truly are.

I must remember this the next time a pair of green eyes or a mane of black hair

threatens to undo me.


I could go on forever,

but I think I'll stop here.

I'll stop with thoughts of Timon and Pumbaa snacking on some grub,

with Rafiki up a tree and chanting to himself,

with the weeds of the Pridelands on their sides, flattened by the wind,

and the sun a distant, far-off reminder that each day we should rise

and try to meet it.




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