There are things I dare not write, and send to be seen and known and judged. Not yet.
Hello House. I hear you. Perhaps – this is hard to say, with a voice that sounds unlike my thoughts – perhaps you can do me another favor? I know I live within you like a clownfish in an anemone, and that without your help I would not have lasted this long. Do houses even do that weird, guilt-tripping thing about giving and receiving help? Do you resent me rattling between your walls and leaving the doors open all the time?
Are you a shiny oyster shell, doomed to crack? And am I the smear of slime and muscle inside, or a pearl formed around an irritating grain of sand?
I have to go to the Night Garden again. It will not be pleasant, but I need to know. To breathe the watchful air and to sift the silence through my fingers. I must pin myself in place and be without this fear, this watching, never able to close a door behind me for fear of what it might become. The night garden could change that, if the words burned in the back of my brain are true.
If I am right –
I can’t be wrong.
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