the Doll shuts down its computer and heads to bed... but something catches its eye on the way. it's already past midnight, the date has ticked over, and a calendar notification has popped up.
a birthday, an old friend's birthday. it's always bittersweet for the Doll, remembering the People and the Witches that once filled its life. this one... this one was special, one of the greatest single impactors on the Doll's life.
and today marked the twelfth anniversary of one such impact: twelve years ago, the Doll threw out all of its razors. it wasn't the last time, but it was the first. it wanted to heal, and heal permanently. no more gold needed to set the pieces back together, no more scars... one of the most hopeful moments in the Doll's life.
the Doll says the silent prayer it often finds itself saying, begging any entity that might be listening to watch over that person. the Doll asks this for many people, but this specific person the most.
with a sigh, the Doll lets the prayer go. no one listened before, why would they listen now? oh well.
good luck, old friend.
a Doll playing games! this one is about a tiny creature on a big journey. a lot of stories are like that: a small being on a grand adventure, overcoming treacherous terrain, crafty critters, and fearsome foes. they'll have some lofty goal, a quest to complete, and a place to reach.
this time, the story is of tiny creature on a big journey, but the journey really is just... life. its goals are to find a place to sit and admire the scenery, to make some friends, and to protect itself from the local wildlife. the biggest part of the journey was convincing some deer to let it pass. a simple set of goals.
why then is the Doll so frustrated by this game? why is the tiny creature so frail? so small and defenceless? why are all the things that are chasing it so big and relentless? and why does the creature only die when its careless or overconfident? ... but then it comes back and tries again and again and again... and it overcomes obstacles and goes further than it did last time and
wait a minute, is this a metaphor?
no, it's simply a little world with a little creature who is trying its best.
the Doll's first memory is of falling on the concrete driveway and scraping its knee. the first thing it remembers is the pain from the fall, followed by the sting of the antiseptic. one might wonder what kind of a person could be built from such a foundation.
sometimes the most painful thing is a bare space, an empty room. this place needs some colour, so the Doll learns to carefully fold paper into flowers. making slow, careful creases, the Doll works ceaselessly.
hours, days, months... seasons come and go, flowers bloom and die, the rains and the fires and the floods and the sun all have their time. despite years of work, tending to its paper garden, the Doll keeps folding, a desperate need to curate its surroundings sustaining it through the decades, to fill the space around it with colour, to will life to grow in the cracks of its cold, porcelain skin.
and so it produces art in an endless quest to make a sound louder than its own voice.
a Doll at a party, a party with lots of people and Witches and Dolls. the Kind Witch from the quiet place is hosting, and is looking after This One, but This One is looking for trouble. it sneaks off into a back corner, to make new friends with the kind of people who love to see pretty things break, and it opens its cracks for their amusement. it smiles as they jeer and laugh, and it stays quiet when they play their games.
a little Doll, some time ago, with fewer cracks and scrapes, though the ones it has aren't fixed quite so well. yes, a little Doll, making friends at a party, some place it wasn't supposed to be. new friends who love to see pretty things break. the start of a loop that yet remains unbroken.
the party ends, and the Doll thanks the Witch. it had fun, and it hopes she did too.
charred steel and mangled wires atop a pile of burnt wood. the music has stopped now.
the Doll had a beautiful voice, once, and it sang often. it's been almost a decade since it performed for someone, but it sings sometimes. it loves to sing happy things, and it loves to sing fun things. the Doll sings about counting bananas, it sings about the city that changed its name, and it sings about a wandering vagrant who steals a sheep.
but it sings best when it sings about the times it felt the most. it sings, with all the power it has within it, about being lost in a paradise, about shattered mirrors, about fields of grain and shared moments. each song resonating somewhere deep inside the Doll, like a tether to another place and another life. sometimes the Doll sees itself in these moments, and she swears she sees skin instead of porcelain.
the Doll always wishes it could practice more, but it doesn't have the vocal stamina it once did. after a song or two, it needs to rest its voice. maybe someday.
a rainy day gives the Doll a headache. the weather is mild, and the pain has the Doll feeling sleepy. it lazes around, wrapped up in a blanket, watching the the coloured shapes move around the walls like hungry amoebae. oh well, at least it's something to do.
the doll goes back to sleep
the Doll sits, staring at a blank page, not the first time nor the last. just a cursor blinking, like a ticking clock. a heartbeat waiting to pump words like blood, to carry letters like cells. but Dolls don't have hearts. Dolls aren't made for such things.
that has to be the reason, right?
Doll who writes something to share, but can't bring itself to do so.
so it hides it away, like it used to.
maybe one day.