Without you, my world’s clean and new. It’s empty, but in a good way, like a fresh new page. I have so many possibilities now, so many choices. I never realized how you chained me down until I was released and started running and realized I’d gone miles before I even looked back.
Now there are infinite roads to wander down and I am overwhelmed by the freedom of being completely alone. But I will find my way, I will forge my path, and I’ll be more than I ever was with you.
“Leave the dishes.
Let the celery rot in the bottom drawer of the refrigerator
and an earthen scum harden on the kitchen floor.
Leave the black crumbs in the bottom of the toaster.
Throw the cracked bowl out and don’t patch the cup.
Don’t patch anything. Don’t mend. Buy safety pins.
Don’t even sew on a button.
Let the wind have its way, then the earth
that invades as dust and then the dead
foaming up in gray rolls underneath the couch.
Talk to them. Tell them they are welcome.
Don’t keep all the pieces of the puzzles
or the doll’s tiny shoes in pairs, don’t worry
who uses whose toothbrush or if anything
matches, at all.
Except one word to another. Or a thought.
Pursue the authentic-decide first
what is authentic,
then go after it with all your heart.
Your heart, that place
you don’t even think of cleaning out.
That closet stuffed with savage mementos.
Don’t sort the paper clips from screws from saved baby teeth
or worry if we’re all eating cereal for dinner
again. Don’t answer the telephone, ever,
or weep over anything at all that breaks.
Pink molds will grow within those sealed cartons
in the refrigerator. Accept new forms of life
and talk to the dead
who drift in though the screened windows, who collect
patiently on the tops of food jars and books.
Recycle the mail, don’t read it, don’t read anything
except what destroys
the insulation between yourself and your experience
or what pulls down or what strikes at or what shatters
this ruse you call necessity.”—Louise Erdrich
She sits. Her mind is itching with words but the lines on the paper stay blank. She rubs her eyes, she twirls her hair. Sometimes it feels as if all the beautiful sentences in the world have already been written.
I’m walking down a street and talk to various people, including Voldemort and Roald Dahl. I also look into the windows of a few shops, all selling a different type of fruit (like there’s a orange store, a banana store, etc.) There’s a fight going on outside the tomato store, because people a few people are saying it should be on a different street because it’s a vegetable, but then the owners of the store are yelling at them, telling them tomatoes are, in fact, fruit. I try to avoid this conflict and walk further down the street, until I enter this house of mirrors. I look in a few mirrors, but my reflection doesn’t show a single time. At first, I just have a nagging suspicion that something is wrong but I can’t put my finger on it. Then, I realize that I should see my reflection. This is when I realize I’m dreaming. So, I run out the door and down the street screaming and ask Voldemort for his magical powers and I get them, except I use them for good, not evil, and everyone on this weird fruit street loves me. Then I wake up.
The song of suffering is so fascinating. I’m strangely attracted to it, feeling raw, rough pain. It must be better than this, this nothing-feeling I seem to always have, you know? Let me bleed with hurt. Let me cry with despair. Just let me feel something.
She tried to hide from those things, those which were dark and cold and made her scream in the middle of the night. But there came a time when she realized she had to hold her head high and march on, and she did it—right through her fears. She couldn’t even remember why they used to scare her. She supposes she’s growing up, after all. It seems that Peter Pan didn’t have quite as tight of a grip as she had thought. For some reason, this makes her sad. She had trusted him, she had trusted childhood. She thought her brain would stay the same forever and ever. She thought she wouldn’t change. But Peter let go—no, she pushed him away. And now there was no turning back.
She cries for all that she has lost. She is confused and awkward and alone. But she will never show it. She straightens her shoulders and prepares to move onward again, like a soldier into battle. Because that is what she must do.
“Art without emotion is like chocolate cake without sugar. It makes me gag. The next time you work on your trees, don’t think about trees. Think about love, or hate, or joy, or pain—whatever makes you feel something, makes your palms sweat or your toes curl. Focus on that feeling. When people don’t express themselves, they die one piece at a time. You’d be shocked at how many adults are really dead inside—walking through their days with no idea who they are, just waiting for a heart attack or cancer or a mack truck to come along and finish the job. It’s the saddest thing I know.”—Laurie Halse Anderson