(The Stolen Diary) The Random L'il Girl, stashed up in her bed, wonders
Many many months ago, the Random Li'l Girl had wondered, what if she had met the Boy Next Door, when they were littler, many many years ago. Well, she doesn't really know, even to this day. But what if things were different? Perhaps, when you are littler, you forgive little things way more easily. Forgetting, is merely second nature. Once the elders conspire and raise you into being not so little any longer, life changes. You might still be comfortable doing what you do, but you no longer feel that careless happiness; that reckless smile, that need to be content because you just are. That carefree peacefulness that lets life takes its own twists and turns. That need to live, and just that.
"Life is strange", she thinks to herself, at random times. "Life was much nicer then", he thinks to himself, at similar random times.Yet they don't agree. Or do they simply not understand, that what they are saying are simply put, the absolute same things? Perhaps, he wants to go back to the little times; and she wants to feel that bliss in now. And if that's all the disagreement, can they not agree to disagree?
[And oddly enough, suddenly the lines of a song, sift through the train of thoughts in her mind and disrupt them- "And I think to myself, What a wonderful world...."]
She sighs. Deeply. And thinks of where she might hide this diary. May be, with all the other unsent letters. Or may be elsewhere. Somewhere, where the Boy next Door wouldn't really think of looking, but would be able to look if he wanted to; may be it would be the easiest first place he'd think of. If he thinks of it, that is.
The other day she had shown him a secret hiding place, where she locks up the unsent letters. And he was not happy, that she had never sent them. But then she used to. Once, long long ago, until he no longer looked forward to it, until he received and read them with a tediousness of habit, he wasn't aware of himself.
Much similarly, now she no longer feels the need to find out if he means it, when he says, he didn't hide her playthings. At times, she finishes her lunch and afternoon homework, for she has to wait for their play time and then he no longer shows up; she used to be so upset that he would play with others and he'd insist he had too much homework. Now she no longer gets so upset. Perhaps a little. But what does it matter if it was homework or playmates. He didn't want to play with her. He forgot she waits. In fact, he didn't even know she does, or why. And isn't that what really matters?
At times, when he would express his reasons of being upset, he would say that what mattered, was that she thought he was away playing at the other neighbourhood park; so it mattered little if he was finishing homework or punished for the prank he played on her.
He would also complain that play time was no longer so much fun with her; he didn't like it when she made her Humpty Dumpty sad-smiley face; or when she would repeatedly want those old playthings. He just wanted to play with her today. Like earlier on. And make her smile. And everytime she wouldn't, he would go finding people whom he could make smile.
He couldn't understand why those broken toys were so important to her. What he didn't know was that, it was the broken toys, that he brought her, that she so loved. Broken, they might be, but hey were special all the same.
She wonders, if it really has stopped mattering to her where those toys are or whom he has gone to play with. Because, when he says, he wants to be elsewhere, play other fun games that they play in the next neighbourhood, that is all that is important.
He no longer wants to play with the old play things; the old play mates; the old play fights; ....
posted by the transient twilight @ 12:32 pm
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