That night, at one in the morning, I delved deep into my childhood. Dust danced silver in the weak glow of the lamplight. Navy-grey shadows cast glooming shapes on the wall. I reached into the hidden corner, and pulled. Childhood tears, dreams, saints... All stored in a little shoebox.
I had grown up in glass. Porcelain dolls, shiny mirrors, glass beads, it was all I had. The only plastic toys I had were still safe in their boxes, waiting to be sold for profit, never to be opened and loved. My dolls and friends were these little glass animals I always got for Christmas, it mostly consisted of dolphins. They would swim and cackle and socialize with the other diverse animals of my little kingdom. I was in that kingdom, too. But there, my name was not Jacqui. I had no name, just like everyone else. I was invisible, and I watched over them all. My favorite was this clear glass elephant atop a mirrored pedestal. If you twisted him, he would sing a song in his bell-tone voice. It was always the same song.
He was a musicbox-- musicboxes were also a major part of my childhood. The song of rotating glass, creaky joints, and ringing bells sang me to sleep. I sang along and made up poems to go with the music. I made up stories about the animals on top and created entire worlds just for them. Music boxes were my story books and lullabies.
As a child, my hands were small and clean. I was used to holding glass and fragile things. Now, I have grown older. I have grown clumsy. My little glass world has cracks. The glass elephant has shattered. And I get up at one in the morning to pawn through it the shards. I live a miserable existence, no imagination, no glass. My mirrors have fogged over. My music boxes have stopped playing. And yet, here I am, trying to put it all back together. Glue won't fix it. Tape won't, either. The type of wound on the glass cannot be fixed by simple means. Shatters always have scars.
Reaching this conclusion, I give up on my childhood. I pack away all the shatters, the shards, the memories... I shove the little shoebox into a corner to collect more dust.
Big metaphor.
Lovely.
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The Warped and Continually Twisted Mind of the Abnormally Average American Teenager
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