chapter five

when we're young and still naive we do impulsive and illogical things, like design extensive castles and tree houses with full belief that you will live in them some day, or make serious plans with yourself to grow up to become a toy-maker in santa's angel workshop in the clouds. we talk to strangers, make best friends in five fast minutes in the sandbox, cry loud when we're sad and laugh loud when we're happy without lowering our voices or looking around nervously.

she had lost that freedom long ago. as she slid in the shadows down the street it reminded her of being taught to tip-toe and whisper when she was 4 because dad worked the graveyard shift and slept days and mom worked all day and slept nights. it was a loud city but she had since maintained the invisibility. and she was reminded of her parents telling her not to cry, to be a big girl, kids making fun of her on the playground and teachers scolding her, as she felt tears burning holes in the back of her eyes. she blinked but nothing came. she couldn't remember the last time she cried; it must have been nearly a decade that her face had been a desert, and even in a city as rainy as this one her face was always dry. all life needs water to grow so I guess you could say she was stuck somewhere.

chapter four

she left walking in the opposite direction of home, not quite thinking about it and not quite sure why. mostly she just moved quickly, almost unconsciously, feeling the beating of her heart through her whole body, overwhelmed with how someone knew her, or knew of her, or wanted to know her. she remembered being young, longing for secret admirers and love letters, arriving in the mail or slipped into her locker. but they never came and she let go of the idea like how you dismiss fairy tales and mythology and movie happy endings when you realize they aren't real and will never happen to you. so she walked briskly, terrified and elated, with the letter clutched to her chest (above the heart - where else?).

she walked without thinking about it. if she had slowed down just enough or let the rest of her thoughts filter in to consciousness, perhaps it would have been more clear that she was both running from something and running to something. running from? herself; her shitty, small apartment and the boring intersections that she crossed every single day; The Lightswitch Cafe; the night before; from fear of love and the unknown; from that thick, black, heavy feeling in the back of her heart that she was undeserving. and running to? the simultaneous hope for something new and wonderful to take her by the hand and for the same old nothing to lead her home, back to bed, no surprises or mystery; to anything that could possible distract her; and, literally, to the corner of 3rd and columbia.