Once upon a time there was a girl who lived inside.
Small, she was so far inside and so still that the woman barely noticed her presence. Yes, once in a while her belly exploded in cold, heat, tightness and movements. When there was fear and anger, especially, it was so much movement. But could she imagine that it was ‘the one who lived inside’ wanting to slip away?
Once upon a time she was living inside. She found her small space when she was three years old – a little corner deep inside, warm and protected – and had stayed there for the last three decades. The walls of her corner were thickening – layers and layers magically appeared.
‘The one who lived inside’ was becoming more and more protected. ‘The one that lived inside’ was going more and more unnoticed.
Once upon a time she was living outside. She had seen and felt the sensation in the middle of her body. When the movement started she would put her hands to her mouth, trying to hold the rusty ungoverned words that kept coming out. The swirling of the belly was always directly proportional to the sputtering of words.
They slipped away without control. They came so deep from inside that they did not seem to come from her. The words seemed to come out of a catapult straight from the middle of the belly. So inward and so hidden that after being catapulted they left behind the sensation of a black hole.
And the small one shrank, in her constant effort to balance her anonymity and self-expression. A challenge beyond her size.
Once upon a time there were the girls who lived.
Sometimes the outside one spoke. Sometimes the inside one.
One knew that.
The other did not.