"I ... I just wanted to say", I stuttered, my lips dry, "that I really like it when you hold my hand. So, I mean, you don't have to apologize because I like it and you can hold, I mean, if you want to, maybe, you can really hold my hand whenever you...
Hello my lovelies! Actually, this chapter should be shorter. But somehow the Changki spirit possessed me; besides, it's an apology for the little progress on the drawing. Have fun reading and a nice day <3
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The moment we are born, I believe that we carry something very special inside of us.
No one really knows anything about it; children don't yet possess enough ability of speech to voice it in a way adults would understand, and even if they did, nobody would believe them. They're children after all, people with empty books no one has yet dared to set a pen onto. People believe there have to be words written on your pages by someone else, without realizing you may carry them with you but aren't able to find a pen to write them down.
But a child's pages are empty, not white or black or a shade of grey. If they look onto the world, with all its colours and seasons, they take notice of the things how they are; every piece of landscape in front of them gets burned into their conscience, like fresh paint on a canvas. There is nothing scribbled over their eyeballs with a permanent marker. Their eyes and skin are like windows.
And then, someday, it's just something they hear or see, a word or a picture or a feeling. It's words that turn to dust, like the dust you find on your bookshelves after you haven't cleaned for a while ever since your mother told you you'd have to take care of your room by yourself from now on. And somehow the dust gets stuck in your pores and on the windows and makes the sight a bit duller.
And maybe no one ever comes to clean your window. As you get older, there is more dust and dust until the world outside seems like a black and white print out of a printer that hasn't been working for quite a while. At first you may want to clean them, but just as you missed a pen, you now miss water and a towel. Then, you get used to it. Maybe the world outside isn't worth all this struggle, right?
But then someday, maybe when you're twenty or thirty or forty, there is something on your window. Perhaps it's a newspaper article, or a post-it with a strange handwriting. It's the equivalent of waking up and noticing something's different. And suddenly, there is a wind, or a bird or a human that cleans your windows; he is just suddenly there and you stare at him while trying to figure out how you were able to forget how beautiful and bright it looks outside.
I've never forgotten it, I don't think so. But not being able to clean up the mess, you get a bit numb over time. As humans like to do, adults pretend their windows are clean although they are full of dust, and their children's will soon be too, so no one bothers to pay attention to anything those without words in their books say. So they all carry on with dusty windows, and maybe they are all just too afraid to ask someone to clean them. You might never know if they take a chance to break the glass into pieces, I don't know either. But over time, as the dust is unavoidable, you will need something, someone. An event. Kind words. They can all be the stuff we need to clean our windows.
Or people. I'd like to believe that sometimes it is a person who cleans our windows, just because they want us to see. I always wanted to believe that, just as kids believe in monsters and fairies. And looking at children, who seemed to bear so much more knowledge than some adults do, I'd gotten the impression that we would all be children again if it wasn't for the dust on our windows; the dust, that may only truly be cleaned up by a person because it were humans who put it onto the fragile glass.
