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.
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