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