The drab, brown door opens up a new, a better world for me in the house of my childhood. Climbing to the top shelf, above the folded sheets, towels and washcloths, nestling in and among the bulkier blankets. Finding the book and flashlight just where I left them, floating into cherished worlds-protected, delicate, and dependable. Images from the books- pioneer families in weathered log cabins, open grasslands under immense blue skies, a young girl gallops her black stallion.
“Come with me horse.”
“I will come.”
“Can I ride with you?”
“Grab my mane and get a hold, we will ride the wind together.”
“I love you horse, you are tender and gentle.”
“You are mine, person, I will give you my warmth.”
Escape, withdraw, hiding from that cruel world, the one outside the closet, the one I really live in, or do I? Sometimes the world in my mind is the more real one. In the distance, I can hear life outside the closet. A part of me is curious, are they are wondering where I am? I stay on my shelf as long as I can, sometimes drifting off to sleep. It is a calm place, a sacred place.
We learn easily our limitations from others. In the words and lands of my childhood fiction, my abilities and strengths were shown to me.
(All images from Pixaby)