She'll come alive through the paint.
In a stroke.
But living isn't really living anymore, is it?
So, where is she?
Things were grand. A roller coaster of emotions, she was, but she was happy. She didn't know it. But she was.
She had hope, back then. I don't know where it is now. She remembers sitting in class, nervous. Waiting for a call that she didn't understand. The truth was, she did understand. But she didn't want to believe it. So, telling herself that she didn't really know what it meant was a way for her to deny what was really going on.
The fluorescent lights outside of the classroom shed plain, pallid light in the hallway. She snuck out there to listen to her father, his voice steady, confident. Lies? Or did he believe himself? Regardless, she believed his words. They felt safe. They felt okay. Her heart felt sad, but she had that hope. Whatever the fuck that was.
"The operation went fine."
Fucking tell me what this means, I tell her. But she's in the past, and I'm in the present. So how the fuck will she hear me? It doesn't matter anymore. We're here. She's there. The future is dark. Or, maybe, it is bright.
Let's practice dialectically.
I can't. Neither can she. She worries too much. She was wondering if her mother would see her sister graduate. She saw mine. Or was that the disease? No, no; it was her. She saw it.
Sips, sips. Let the liquid flow.
You know who you are, you do. You're afraid, and I know it. I feel it. You're stuck. You're so very stuck, like a small, scared animal stuck in tar. Except time stops for you. The world around you keeps going. You never age. Your body does. People think you mature. You do things adults do. But, inside, you're still the same. You're still that small, desperate child. Well, fuck. What do you do? Don't be so damn afraid, child. Even children in Neverland grow and learn. You'll get out of this.
Let's practice. Come alive through the paint. This is your picture. It's not always big. But it's here.
Paint, bitch. Paint.