Observation #9, 10/25: Refract

(Theme: Fairy Tales)

Once upon a time there was a girl who lived and breathed for fantasy. Everything un-real was a delight and everything impossible brought with it a sense of joy inherent in that the thing or person or place was just that: impossible. She whiled away hours and days reading, inventing, dreaming, sculpting herself until she could look into the mirror and see something impossible. And that brought joy to her. She so loved being impossible that she buried all of the possible parts of her far, far within herself, so far that they were lost.

But one day this girl began to change. Her hips swelled and stretch marks splintered her sides like trails left by snails in the dust.

She ran to her mother, “Mommy, mommy, I’m puffing up like a balloon! What is happening to me?”

But her mother did not look up from her book, and said only “It’s nothing, dear.”

And the girl went back to her impossibilities.

But then small hairs began to appear under her arms, on her legs, and in the most embarrassing of places.

She ran to her mother, “Mommy, mommy, I’m sprouting fur! What is happening to me?”

But her mother did not look up from her cooking, and said only “It’s nothing, dear.”

And the girl went back to her un-reality.

But then her chest began to inflate and jiggle when she moved.

She ran to her mother, more hysterical than ever, “Mommy, mommy my skin is sagging and falling off! What is happening to me?”

Her mother looked up from her painting and looked through her calmly. “My dear,” she took her by the shoulders, “You are growing up. Soon you will need new clothes and a new room and new kinds of books to read. You will want different things and spend time with different kinds of people. You will change and grow and learn so much.” Her mother embraced her.

“But mommy,” said the girl, “I have already changed myself in the mirror.”

“No, sweetheart,” said the mother. “You have to leave that behind.”

And the little girl ran back to her mirror and all she could see were those possible parts she had buried rising up again. She tried and tried to shape herself back the way she used to be. She tried once, and the stretch marks burned brighter. She tried again and the hairs grew darker. She tried a third time and her chest grew heavier than ever! She tried a final time and she burst wide open, and was standing there the way she was supposed to be: impossible. And that brought her joy.