The Ballerina and the Figurine
As I cast a glance at the window, it is dark. I fail to see the glitter of pin-prick stars in the sky. To me, they are not there. I am alone.
It seems, I am always alone. The night is dark, scary and makes the loneliness even worse than in the day.
Maybe the day is not so bad, even I can at least see light on the sky. While they tell me how the sky is blue, I see only a drab grey.
I do not know how or when it all began, but I guess it is irrelevant now; I have been along, for far too long to care.
Each night, I go to my dust grey bed, hoping the next day is just a speck of dust brighter than the last. It never happened. It never does happen. Will it ever happen.
I could ask for a new diary, but I barely touched the one I have. I don’t feel like writing, since I know you could read what I wrote and laugh. Besides, nothing much worth writing about, ever happens to me.
I go up, and go to bed. I cry myself to sleep. There is food in the fridge, but I barely bother touching that much. I just eat enough, to feel my belly, to dull that pain.
I know, my diary did come with a lock; but I ended up, ripping it up and leaving it unlocked on the top of my nightstand. Why bother hiding it if I take the time writing it down? It is not, as if it does any difference.
Maybe I would have been writing, if I had been good enough at it? You see, I am not old enough for school yet. School starts, in a few months. Or, was that a year? It’s irrelevant.
Maybe I would have been writing, if I had been good enough at it? You see, I am not old enough for school yet. School starts, in a few months. Or, was that a year? It’s irrelevant.
I knew my bed was not grey, when my father bought it and I got a room of my own. That is long ago, long enough for me to be alone and lonely.
I know I had a father, but I have not seen him. Not since that day, but that is so long ago. Now I am lone, mostly with my mother. The few times I actually do see her. I feel, she does not see me; she does not have the time, or the energy these days. She is like a balloon, but most of the air slipped out of it. Now she is just as grey and dull, as the rest of me and my life.
There is a distinct knock on the door of my room. It comes out, mostly dull.
“What does she want, this time?” I ponder, she had never kissed me good night, not since I moved into my own room.
Maybe it had been better, if I had never moved out. Of course, my father was still here back then..
I hear the door open, and a sliver of cold and lifeless light slip into the room.
I do not speak, or say anything. Why change anything, for the worse? She has never yelled at me, even if that may be because she never had the energy for it. What if I provoked her?
I pretend to be asleep. The light had been out, already.
I hear the sounds of her stepping into my room. I feel the scent of her body, while she enters my room.
There is a thud, weak and lifeless. She had apparently left something on my night stand.
“Something?”
She had stepped out of my room. The light had escaped, after her.
My room is in twilight. Cold and dark.
“Twilight!”
Twilight is all I have, twilight is what my life is. What it became.
Maybe, maybe I should learn to love twilight.
In twilight, lives uncertainly. In the light, lives only certainty. If I do not know, I could down; imagine a life, I never had and could never have. As if, that life could become real;when I step out into the light of a new day.
In the growing darkness, everything is still and quiet. So much more quiet, than my comfort could take. Yet, I dare not make a sound; lest the sound calls forth, that which is worse than the quiet in the dark. I barely breathe and keeps my eyes closed.
Time passes, it always does.
I fell asleep, a slumber that is not. I am not awake. Or, I am not aware of the time that is lapsing, out of my grasp.
There is a package, on my nightstand. The room is still dark and cold. Why shouldn’t it be?
I turn towards the gift, on my nightstand. It is not paper, but silk, bright white and spotless. Not a single blemish.
Carefully, I rip it open; without hurting the silk encompassing the gift I had been given.
A gift, worth treasuring.
I do not know why, it just is. I had been given something. Late, last night. Or, maybe it is still night. The room is dark, and it is dark outside. At least, for all I know it is.
When you feel bad, the world is hurt and hurting. The world is still hurt. I am hurting with it.
“Poor world!”
Okay? Poor me, I am hurting and alone.
Who cares?
Within the silken cover, there is a box. Light beech wood, no mere paper. Not for me. Or, is that for her?
I hear voices, or I think I hear voices.
Voices, of song and laughter.
Strange, I can’t recall I ever heard these voices before.
“Starlight Glimmer” the engraved platinum plaque at the base of the figurine reads.
“Starlight Glimmer!” I whisper, in breathless excitement.
This is no mere, regular plastic figurine.
Starlight is a ballerina, in tight slippers and a fabulous, tight suit.
Starlight is smiling at me, not laughing at me.
As I look at her, Starlight Glimmer is a light purple; but for me, she could as well have been gold.
There is a bright aura around her slender features; while she is standing in her graceful pose. She is dancing. A pirouette.
I close my eyes and falls asleep. A peaceful slumber.
As I wake up, the room is not quite as dark. It is not quite the grey room I had lived in and fallen asleep in.
Starlight is still waiting for me, where she was standing while I fell asleep.
Only now, I am no longer grey, but a desaturated cerise. Not quite the brightness of Starlight Glimmer herself. Yet, at least I am alive. Am I not?
I switch on the reading light over my bed. Now I see that she is in fact wearing a dress and slippers. These are not painted on clothes on her body. She is wearing an actual diminutive version of an actual ballerina dress and slippers. She winks at me, still smiling.
“Why is my bed pink?”
“A friend!” I realize; “Someone, whom I can trust with my secrets and troubled thoughts!” I continue.
“Exactly!” she merely nods.