Look back, if you will, on a time long since forgotten. When the animals that crashed through the forests and plains were gentler, and there was magic of a different kind in the air. A time before the battlefield, before the practice of exile became commonplace, when things were simpler, wilder, and more primal.

These were the halcyon days of my youth, when a budding mage locked in battle with the purest of control, the most aggressive of zoo animals, or the fiercest storm—but could come out on top no matter what the odds as the tools and weapons available to him were the same as those of his opponent, and none stood out among the field.

This was a time for [card flametongue kavu]Kavu[/card]. This was a time for the nimblest of [card nimble mongoose]mongoose[/card], and a time when everyone had the right to [card werebear]Bear Arms[/card]. When [card mystic enforcer]Mystical Enforcers[/card] roamed the skies, locked in an epic struggle with Dragons of [card fledgling dragon]Fledgling[/card] size. A time when you could protect yourself from game-ending spells through no more than sheer Force of Will, though the attempt often left you under Duress. It was a time when the purest of white mages found an answer in the feathered [card wing shards]shards[/card] of an angel’s wing.

This was the format I fell in love with, so many days ago. This is the format that captured my imagination and my dedication, and inspired me to become the player I have become. Alas, this format’s time has come, and this format’s time has gone.

From a warm summer of exploration came a cold snap, and the beautiful and cherished innocence left in a [card flash]Flash[/card]. Despite the efforts of many a mage, there would simply be no return. You can’t go home again.

`Twas brillig, and the slithy toves
Did gyre and gimble in the wabe:
All mimsy were the borogoves,
And the mome raths outgrabe.

“BEWARE THE TARMOGOYF, MY SON!
The jaws that bite, the claws that catch!
Beware the [card insectile aberration]Insectile[/card] bird, and shun
The frumious Griselbrand!”

He took his [card sword of fire and ice]Fire/Ice sword[/card] in hand:
Long time the manxome foe he sought –
So rested he, by the [card tree of redemption]Redemption tree[/card],
And stood a while in thought.

And, as in uffish thought he stood,
The Tarmogoyf, with eyes of flame,
Came planeswalking through the tainted wood,
And trampled as it came!

1/2, 1/2, and through and through
the [card sword of fire and ice]Fire/Ice sword[/card] went snicker-snack!
He left it dead, and with its head,
He went planeswalking back.

“And has thou slain the Tarmogoyf?
Come to my arms, my beamish boy!
O frabjous day! Callooh, callay!”
He chortled in his joy.

`Twas brillig, and the slithy toves
Did gyre and gimble in the wabe:
All mimsy were the borogoves,
And the mome raths outgrabe.*

Where once the field was rife with life, of varied and wondrous depth, today the field seems a barren waste, and stale for all of its variety.

Perhaps it’s I who has changed, and the format has remained as it once was. And yet the stab of loss is still inside me all the same. For the format I loved, the format that I raised as a child of my own seed, is no longer the passion for which there is no quench of thirst.

I find that the play of the games is too strange. It’s too fast, too lose, to free. I can’t help but think that the piece that’s missing is the promised “deckbuilder’s dream.”

Once upon a time, in a not so far away place, there was the idea—maybe it was even true—that you could find success with anything. It was an illusion, but the illusion kept us happy. The illusion has been shattered, and the ugly truth staring back at us from the back of the mirror isn’t shiny, isn’t bright, and isn’t clean. Instead, it’s a horrific visage that tells us “these are not the decks that you are looking for,” and grabs for our throats with a [card emrakul, the aeons torn]thousand horrific tentacles[/card].

The bar has been set. The bar is too damn high.

I guess I just miss my friend.

There is a place where the standard ends
And before the legacy begins,
And there the grass grows soft and white,
And there the sun burns crimson bright,
And there the moon-bird rests from his flight
To cool in the peppermint wind.

Let us leave this place where the smoke blows black
And the dark legacy winds and bends.
Past the pits where the asphalt flowers grow
We shall walk with a walk that is measured and slow,
And watch where the chalk-white arrows go
To the place where the standard ends.

Yes we’ll walk with a walk that is measured and slow,
And we’ll go where the chalk-white arrows go,
For the children, they mark, and the children, they know
The place where the standard ends.*

Hope, they say, is the final thing to lose—and I’m not such a great loser as to have given up my last. I fear that the place where I once flourished is gone for good, but the future need not be a bleak and terrible place.

In the Modern world, a wild west of new and exciting decks to explore awaits for those who are willing to brave the new frontier. In a way, it brings to mind the feelings lost so long ago, when apes and lions stood to do battle with elves and goblins. When crossing through the [card dark ritual]darkest rituals[/card] could bring victory to your grasp, but it took more than Show and Tell for your opponent to bow in defeat. When value was king, and the risk of pure annihilation wasn’t looming so large on the horizon.

I consider these similarities, between the Modern world and the Legacy of one so distant in hindsight, and I see a place where I can find the satisfaction I once found in those innocent and impressionable days of my youth.

Two roads diverged in a yellow wood,
And sorry I could not travel both
And be one traveler, long I stood
And looked down one as far as I could
To where it bent in the undergrowth;
Then took the other, as just as fair,
And having perhaps the better claim,
Because it was grassy and wanted wear;
Though as for that the passing there
Had worn them really about the same,
And both that morning equally lay
In leaves no step had trodden black.
Oh, I kept the first for another day!
Yet knowing how way leads on to way,
I doubted if I should ever come back.
I shall be telling this with a sigh
Somewhere ages and ages hence:
Two roads diverged in a wood, and I-
I took the one less traveled by,
And that has made all the difference.

Long ago, in a place not so far from where I now write this to you, I made a choice. I made a calculated and honest decision to leave the path more oft traveled and chose the right path for me. As I speak to you now, I know that this choice has been all the difference in the world, and I would change my decision for nothing and no one.

And still, another choice stands before me. A choice between where I’ve been, what lies before me, and a new and different path. Do you take the path you’ve traveled because it feels familiar? Or do you once more step into the unknown, into the unfamiliar, and let the chips fall where they may?

The Legacy I knew and loved is gone. That much is without question. The Legacy of today is a different animal, and one I love, but am no longer in love with. Where once our fates were entwined, both cooperative and mutually beneficial, I see it now as more a strong friendship that will be there when I need it again—but our interests have drifted apart as we’ve grown older. I’ll be here if she needs me, and she’ll be there for me as well, but it’s time we see other people.

Take this kiss upon the brow!
And, in parting from you now,
Thus much let me avow–
You are not wrong, who deem
That my days have been a dream;
Yet if hope has flown away
In a night, or in a day,
In a vision, or in none,
Is it therefore the less gone?
All that we see or seem
Is but a dream within a dream.

I stand amid the roar
Of a surf-tormented shore,
And I hold within my hand
Grains of the golden sand–
How few! yet how they creep
Through my fingers to the deep,
While I weep–while I weep!
O God! can I not grasp
Them with a tighter clasp?
O God! can I not save
One from the pitiless wave?
Is all that we see or seem
But a dream within a dream?

This is not the end. It is not goodbye. I’m not going anywhere, and I have a legacy of Legacy to contend with. If anything, it’s a eulogy to a fallen friend, an ode to one I’ve left behind, and a coming to terms with the end of an era—about half a decade too late. Still, I have a soft spot for nostalgia, and a history of living in the past; maybe five years is just about spot on.

And so I bid my friend farewell, and with a kiss on the brow and an embrace for good luck, part ways. For now.

Adam
@AdamNightmare

*Apologies to Lewis Carroll and Shel Silverstein, and credit to them as well, along with Robert Frost and Edgar Allen Poe