When I was very young, I used to stare at my closet sort of squinting. I first had this ugly brown accordion style door on it that my parents eventually replaced with a soft, translucent pink curtain that had tiny little circles for texture. My closet had clothes and my bookshelf. When I closed my eyes, I could see the curtain create patterns. Well, I squinted and I could see colors and I began to emote not through me but through the child I imagined. Wait, back up. That may be complex. Imagine what happens after you look at the sun: you get those circles, those oil slick dots, in your retina. I could do that by closing my eyes hard and then opening them fast. Or pressing on my eyes and then opening them. The curtain would look like it was moving and bleeding light. I could feel things move from it. When I wanted to be alone, I just laid on my bed staring at the closet.
I imagined a small girl that looked like me at the edge. She couldn’t really leave the room. Like a twin sister. But better than me. She existed right next to me, parallel, everywhere I went. But she couldn’t exactly leave. Like she was chained. (Well, she went somewhere at night). And she was better than me.
The difference between her and I was her hair. She had long flowing beautiful brown hair. We told each other stories. We dared each other to do things. We played pretend a lot and
she said. I remember everything.
“the woman who walked out of walls” or “the mirror”