In Memory of Lost Things

I read John Connolly's "The Book of Lost Things" last week. Some of my friends say it's incredibly dark and gruesome, but I just think it's an incredibly sad tale, and that feeling's still with me now. Reading the story made me think of my own childhood, and all the innocence I unknowingly lost over the years during random encounters with the perverse and the warped, the evil and the heartless. It makes me sad that when children grow up, they must lose themselves along the way, when there is no guarantee that every one of them will emerge as whole adults. It's necessary, but it's too sad to watch especially in these times, when mindless violence and death are considered entertainment.

Then I think about how much thicker the shadows fall over this world with each year, one for each child. How parents cannot let children out of their sight for even a second for fear that they will be taken away, how those with the kindest faces wear the most terrible of masks, how those with the most honeyed of words commit the worst of sins. What a beautiful heartache it must be to be a parent, to love and protect your child from the Loups and the cowardly kings, the hunters and the Crooked Men of this world.

To the little girl that I once was, I'm sorry that I lost you. I would like to say that I miss you, but the truth is that I no longer remember what it was like being you. We are too separate from each other now, two distinct beings. All the same, I'm sorry for everything I did that killed you and turned you into me.

*Thank you to creativematrix for the picture: The Place of Lost Things

Who Broke Your Spirit?

Half of the time, I manage to overlook the negatives and remember that it is my duty as a human being to love and obey you, no matter what. But each time I try to, the other half comes rushing back, the half where I remember why I despise my situation so much.

After all these years, I should know better. I should just keep my mouth shut, and not say anything more than is necessary. But I do it anyway, because I keep hoping I will get to know you, and that we can be closer.

But we never reach that mark. Not even close. Instead we push ourselves further away from each other. Like ice sweating furiously under the onslaught of fire. But never willing to melt.

Someone asked me the other day how I went from being a bubbly, tune-loving kid to the quietest of souls. "What broke your spirit?" she asked. She was joking, but I thought of you.

Did someone break your spirit the way you broke mine? Was it him?

That makes two of us.

There is too much fire underneath this dormant exterior. Even then I think it isn't enough. No matter what I do or say, I'm never good enough for you. I guess I never will be.

You'll never read these words or know how I feel. After all, you already know everything.