story part 2

The special few gems that glisten, those sparks in the dark, keep my world turning, keep the scribbles for attacking me in the outside space. I am on an eternal treasure hunt, looking to find the next fallen star, the next mesmerizing emerald. Each precious stone has its own life, but I find special places for them in my dollhouse.

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Vesna is my guardian angel; a beautiful angel that has found her way to Earth, and plants seeds of happiness and joy as a daily activity. I am proud to have stumbled across such a being. Honoured to know her name and speak her language. And of course there are others – this treasure hunt has lasted 6 years so far, so I have found several other pretty treasures that I am not worthy of, but to whom I am grateful let me witness their sparkle.

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Spectators complain about them- not about my rubies and sapphires- but the homes we create and the postal system we created to keep dollhouses, separated by time zones and oceans, closely connected. I once read an article on ‘pro-ana’ blogs, saying they are unhealthy, that their existence should be no more: My heart jumped and cart-wheeled manically around my chest at such a thought. We are not all ‘pro-ana’ there, we are simple looking for gold, friends to make each day pass and count. Understand and be understood. At night I wish for the oceans to magically pull each continent closer together, so close that a small hop and jump would take me to them, but each morning I wake to the hammering of thoughts, and realise that patience will have to be practised. I will just have to wait.
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The longer I stay in my den, alone, the further it seems to drift from civilization. Hard to believe, but I once used to house a hubbub of activity, enthusiasm, smiles that were not artificially attached. Now my house is surrounded by mist. When living soles, as opposed to thoughts and the future, tap quietly at the door, from the corridor which to me may as well be a black sanded desert, will I let them in? Sometimes it just happens that the rhythm of hands hitting doors transports me back from my garden, and I make an obliged effort to unlock the front door. But then there are other times, where I am so afraid the desert sands and the mist and the children scribbles will seep in through the smallest open gap, that I make-believe I am in my mini paradise. I climb into my den, hope the warmth is working and that my back will not have horrible surprised of cold metal, and play dead. They won’t hear me, after all, will they? They don’t know I am really here, do they?

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You know you are alive because you can feel your heart pounding, your pulse throbbing past any unhealed wound and scratch. Sometimes these will be your only clues, hints that you are flesh and not china or plastic. Tens of minutes can pass without a bone moving, head in knees, hands on neck. Thinking. To them you are frozen, but inside your skull clockwork is working overtime calculating, scheming, planning, thinking, over and over and over. And over. In my head I am a stubborn little child, rebelling against any friend’s claim to put the spoon in my mouth. I shake my head. “Na-ah, won’t. Won’t. Nope. Na-ah”. The little girl can run and scream and blow raspberries without a care in the world. The older, more tangible girl cares too much to dare do what she dreams. I always vow to become the younger, but thoughts attack, stopping me sometimes, always.
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Is it wrong to get jealous when someone is sicker than you? Wrong, or sad? Because the competitive nature that usually decides to preside in our perfection-driven spirits at least makes me full of envy. I became obsessed by ‘the Green Eyed Monster’ and forever wanted to read ‘Othello’ as a result. The play remains unread to this moment. Nearly each and every single day, the wind blows them into my path. One girl has legs so thin that I want to run and give her a hug, tell her I understand, that she can do this… but I so very secretly want to be her, to have her legs. Another is a translucent ghost that wanders around the cobbled streets, umbrella under arm, diet coke in hand. My eyes, coloured green despite all connotations, blare and inside me I fade. Why not me? Why am I not able to shrink so efficiently? How is it that I could be so weak? Black uncontrolled lines blur my vision, strangle my breath, I try to keep raindrops from falling from my cloudy eyes. I am me. I am not her. And that is not good enough.