Reluctantly, resentfully--I will

It begins as a whisper, ghosting its way across my knuckles and settling momentarily to tantalise the soft pads of my fingertips. write. The itch worms itself in between creases on my thumprint. write. But I cannot, and I will not. It costs too much. Can no one see that I am empty of words? Can no one see how it pains me to see them used so carelessly? I cannot use what has already been so ruthlessly exploited. I cannot cultivate a war-torn land. I cannot heal when I am myself unfixed. And so the insistent, chattering wiggle in my fingers dulls to a mournful ache: please, it begs. But I am harder now, colder and more brittle than before. No, I reply, and the singing dims to a soft keen.

It comes as a wave, now--gathering, draining, pulling all attention and energy to it before launching towards my weakened resolve: write! it cries out. you've done so before, why do you reject what once was a friend? why will you not take up your pen? when did a coward take the soul of you and cheapen it? But I cannot! and I shout it to the star-shattered heavens, I cannot write! I have lost something, and it cannot be found. I have lost the words, and they will not come. I have hurt them, and they remain hidden from me; their roughened edges gleam with fearful tears and silence. I turn my sorrowed gaze on the hands which so softly shake beneath my wistful scrutinty. but we perish, they cry, and I nod, solemn and suddenly empty--I know.

It deepens into a fire, bright golden strands of want flickering up my arms in a glorious burn of sunset. It cannot speak anymore, silent in its glorious blaze, but it scorches my soul with its need. Tendrils drift closer in accusation, and I am forced to turn my gaze from their consuming pleas. No. Quieter, more softly, but no less firm.

It sinks into my skin as the very night, stars kissing each freckle and settling into the grooves of every knuckle and crease. It does not speak. It does not beg. It clings, and somehow this angers me more than the accusations and demands. Go away, I demand, malevolence colouring every attempt to flick it from my skin. You're not wanted. Find someone else to toy with. But still it lingers, nestling all the more snugly into the curves of my fingerprints. I almost wish it would speak now, because then this doubt would not linger, this small seed of wonderment--what if?

No! I shout, and I flee, and run as fast as I have ever run. You cannot make me!

It finds me in my bed, comfortable with pillows and toasted shades of yellow and brown. It perches on the edge of the bed and I watch it, wary. And yet, it does not lunge towards my bare feet poking out from the blanket, nor slink towards my unguarded elbow. I give it a warning frown and return to my book, gaze still flickering back every now and again.

It was an accident. It was trickery. But I fell for it--no, dived for it with every fibre of my being when I saw that small whisper tumble--startled!--off the edge of the bed: No!I cried out, and leapt from the top of the bed to catch, to hold, to save, to cradle this small fragile thing in my arms as we both crash to the floor in a bloody bruised tangle. I wait a moment, scarcely daring amid my frightened gasps to believe what I have done, what I have admitted. Carefully, gently, I pull my arms away from my body, scarcely daring to hope or fear or feel anything at all--

oh! I murmer, as it blinks up at me with a beautific warmth, contentment radiating from every cherished pore of its needy self. Please, comes the faintest breeze, soft, faint, and filled with hope. And something breaks in me which was once broken before, a long time ago. And I swallow hard.

And I nod shakily.

And I take up my pen, and write.

The Book of Lost Things-- John Connolly

Growth cannot happen without loss. Beauty cannot occur without pain. The Book of Lost Things is a story about both, and it resonates with those heartbreaking echoes of familiar tones, like a long-forgotten lullaby that is somehow darker than when you first heard it from a loved one’s softly-parted lips. It is the story of a boy for whom everything once simple and good has become twisted and cruel and corrupted. Where even the tales which end in happiness and with good triumphing over evil become the enemies themselves, for they are shown to have been lies. In this world, this small boy is alone, truly. He is aided by those who selflessly die both for him and because of him. He must trust those whom others would scorn and turn away from as perverted and abnormal—not wanting to accept what they know lies inside of them, too.

It is a beautiful story because it is painful to read. It is frightening, to see how that which we regard as childlike and wonderful and innocent can be so distorted and ugly. It hurts to see those we have come to admire and care for die in painful, horrid ways. It hurts to see the effect such horrid betrayals of childhood have on a boy who is forced to grow up too soon. It is terrifying, because there is some part deep within us which is not certain this will have a happy ending at all, because it is not a children’s book nor a fairy-tale, but a story of growing up and growing past the point of innocence which closes behind the frightened child-adult like the thorny vines in Sleeping Beauty’s twisted castle.

But it is heart-wrenchingly lovely, because this boy—who carries the hopes and hurts and love of all who journey with him—moves past the confusion, betrayal, lies, and loneliness to come out the other side—quieter, sadder, but more beautiful and full for having seen death and pain. This small, fragile innocent is not struck down and withered, nor corrupted and twisted, but instead refined and tempered into a rod of hope and strength which shines in a dark and ugly world. This broken boy succeeds where so many before him have failed, and there is a part of every one of us that rejoices in that victory, because it gives us hope that maybe we too can succeed in such a way, against such cruel and evil, hopeless beings.

And in the end, the Woodsman—the faithful, insurmountable, undefeatable Woodsman—welcomes him home as one of his children. The Woodsman—whose grief and love and selfless protection produce an ache of longing deep within each of us—is shown to be the kindest and wisest of all. He safeguards those who have gone before, those who have become lost, and holds them close and tight until they are found again.

It truly is a book of lost things—lost childhood, lost innocence, lost preconceptions, lost hope, loss—but in the end, it is also a book about found things. And that makes it all the more beautiful.

Read it. I dare you.