Once there was a girl. This girl thought a lot about everything she came across and heard of, analyzing it deeply, twisting and turning it in different directions to see all the different aspects.
Then she thought about them, and found patterns where there were seemingly no patterns, and colours where there were seemingly no colours, and answers where there were seemingly just more questions. And so she found even more questions that she had to find answers to, and so she moved forward and learned about different things she found.
And this girl could pick up a marble and find a universe, and she could study a plant growing in the spring and see it change from day to day, knowing how it built itself up from the tiny particles and water of the cold ground. And she could see it wither and crumble to dry bits in the autumn, knowing that it once again returned to the cold ground in small pieces another plant would build itself up with next spring. And she would sit by the stream and watch the subtle changes in the waterflow, put her fingers down at various depths and feel the strength of the massive body of water tugging at her to pull her down. And she would look up to the moon, knowing the halo that brought rain and the mist that brought the cold. And all that was written clearly in her mind and there were no uncertainties or unknown patterns to fear from the water of the stream, or the clouds in the air, or from the death and rebirth of plants and animals, or from the fire that could both gently warm her and painfully burn her.
And the girl would watch her cats and rabbits and she would learn their patterns. And she would curl up in the fresh green grass in the summer and watch the bugs and ants and small creatures crawl around and she would learn their patterns. And she would sit in the forest in the deep night and listen to the animals call and learn their songs, and she would sit in the forest in the days and watch the animals and learn their patterns until she could understand them. And then she knew she had nothing to fear from the animals or their songs.
But the girl had one thing she couldn’t understand, and that was people, because no matter how she would try she couldn’t find any patterns. And therefore all the times she had to spend with people was filled with uncertenties and fear, because she found no pattern she could read, and all her questions were left unanswered. People would harm her without any readable warning or reason, and therefore she learned to fear people and avoid them. And because of this, she didn’t really learn to speak. She knew the words, but she did not know the patterns to turn the words into speech, and therefore everything she said seemed wrong.
Still, she would escape into the patterns of grammar, and she would learn words and she would learn classes and she would write, because in her writing she felt safe. In the writing, there was a pattern she could find, and therefore there were no uncertenties after the questions had been answered. That led to when she did speak, she spoke in written speech, and everything she said sounded formal and sometimes archaic, and adults and teachers would nod approvingly and tell her that she had such big words for a little girl.
As she couldn’t speak in a way that made people listen to what she actually said, just how she said it, she tried to write things down to tell them. She wrote poems and stories and songs about bad things that happened, because that was how this girl lived; her life was made out of the patterns and rhythms and grammar of stories and songs. And in the songs and the stories she recorded all the bad things that happened to her, and the stories were all filled with feelings surrounding the words. And then she would read people her stories and poems and everyone would smile and tell her how well she wrote, and tell her that she had such big words for such a little girl again and again and again and ignore what the words were really about, and they would ignore the feelings surrounding the words, and they would ignore that the words where about the girl until she slowly learned that her feelings weren’t there.
And even so she would try again, because she wanted people to know. And even so she would write her stories and poems and read them again and again until they were nothing but patterns of words, and all feelings and all true meaning had been long forgotten, even by herself.
And in the patterns of words she would feel safe, because the words were no longer surrounded by feelings, and therefore she could tell them thousands of times without having to feel the same pain and fear as she did when she wrote them. And so she locked all the pain and the fear and the longing and the despair up inside her, and no more she would put them down on paper and have to face them being ignored by people who only saw the words.
And so, nothing could heal. And so, she got trapped in an eternal winter where the autumns’ dead flowers couldn’t crumble to dust and make the spring’s new flowers, and so the winter froze the river to a massive block of ice that couldn’t melt and feed the plants and sustain the life, and so the moon got hidden in unreadable clouds and so the patterns got broken, and she was too caught up with the unfeeling patterns of grammar to notice.
And now when she has finally noticed that her words lost the feelings and that the feelings weren’t actually gone but were nothing but frozen, she has to gently thaw her world and not fear the decay that will come before everything can follow the pattern and get healthy and filled with life once again, because it is the decay and withering of the old that turns it into small enough pieces that new life feed and thrive upon.
And yet, she is still afraid to write as before, and she is afraid to speak as before, and she is afraid of showing the feelings, because she has learned that her feelings has no place around her words, even if she knows the pattern, because now it is a different pattern and she has too many questions that yet needs answers that turn into new questions and new answers before it can be safe once again.
Because, before the answers, there can be no pattern, and therefore her life is filled with uncertainty and fear of what she does yet not know.