18/06/2011
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.
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.
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