you create the world around you as you walk through it - the moon which gives you light, the ground you walk on, the food that nourishes you, the animals that scavenge the leftovers, all this is born from your mind and your mind only. it did not exist before you were there. you do not know if it will exist after you move on
you have been walking for an unknown amount of time - the moon is fixed in the sky, and there is nothing to delineate hour from hour, day from day. you begin to tire. you wish you were home, in your warm bed, but you can’t recall how to return there. all around you, you build house upon house, cities stretching up into the sky with people to populate them, but they are just hollow shells. the people you make so you feel less alone are just as empty as the buildings, only showing you things you already knew, giving you advice you were already following, little better than puppets
you take another glance at the never-changing moon and suddenly you remember how it shone through your bedroom window. your home takes shape around you again, and you collapse into bed at last.
in the back of your mind, stifled and repressed but still lurking, is the thought you cannot bear to think: is this really your home? or is this just another of your creations? have you made it out, made it back? or are you still trapped in a dream of your own making? and do you even know the difference anymore?
so yeah, harold and the purple crayon fucked me up
A few highlights from my visit to the New York Public Library’s exhibit on children’s books. I thought I was just going to see the Winnie the Pooh toys, but there was a lot more. Needless to say, I was in heaven.