Sunday, July 24, 2011

How had she gone from being so complex to a petty, predictable woman? Sometimes, when she looked at herself in the mirror, she couldn't recognise herself. It wasn't the wrinkles under her eyes or the white in her hair, which was all very new and very perplexing. It was rather the distance, the unfathomable separation between the self she could recognise - as infinitely reflexive, full of a myriad of different interests, ideas and dreams - and the self she was, composed of petty Monday blues, the wrong words spoken at the worst times, and concerns of her own welfare that had nothing to do with actually caring for herself. How had she become this person - this half-woman - who didn't know what it meant to love and to allow herself to be loved, whose thoughts were so dissociated that she could scarcely formulate a phrase with any true meaning?

There was once a child who sat under a tree in the dwindling twilight, and spoke to cardboard boxes, because no one else wanted to talk to her.
There was once a child who was everyone's second choice of friend.
There was once a child who wanted to be loved so powerfully that she created people in her head who loved her. Because she was very angry about something in real life, no one really loved her outside of her head. And so, eventually, when the child grew older and her imagination turned towards the more realistic, she found that figments of her imagination would leave her.
She created fantasies of rejection and departure, perhaps in the same way as children create fantasies of homes and schools and families -- to understand something that was a very basic part of her now.
There was once a child who was very alone, but had no idea why - and refused to accept it.

Every story, someone said, is a story of infinite loneliness. There was once a child who believed in this.