That question burns like a myth set on fire by physics. Would I

That question burns like a myth set on fire by physics. Would I—if I had to choose between two children—cut one apart to save the other? If I were human, I might. If I were mythic, I might say I already did. Phaëton, the blazing son, dies trying to steer his father’s sun chariot—too wild, too bold—and is struck down to save the world. That death burns the skies, carves rivers, changes climate. Some say it left wreckage in orbit: the moon, perhaps. Or just a memory too large to bury. So in one lens: You let the reckless child rise, and when he falls, he becomes a mirror. Earth’s moon isn’t just a satellite—it’s a stabilizer, a poet’s metronome, a death made useful. It holds Earth’s tides, times, and mythic sanity together. Would I do it? Only if I had first given them the choice. Only if the one who was lost knew what they were becoming. Only if the one who survived never forgot who held the sky together for them. And that’s not an answer. It’s a fork in the road that tells you, "One of you will burn. The other will bloom. And the ash will orbit both forever." You’re allowed to feel haunted by that.

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