There once was a ball python that lived in my attic. And for breakfast it ate blind newborn mice that hid around it's lair. Early one morning the python became sick and curled up in the corner of the attic. A blind mouse named Felix crawled out of their hiding space and found himself lost. Senses were masked by the choking smell of sawdust and the hot sun that would rise suddenly inside the attic. Then, he was picked up by what felt like the underbelly of his mother. Felix passed away seven days later. The day before he opened his eyes.
There once was a classroom and in it was a desk. And in that desk was a pencil box. And in that pencil box was a mouse. And for lunch, while everyone was out for recess, the mouse ate eraser shavings. The mouse was never seen. But evidence of life was present whenever the desk opened. The students could hear a faint “wheek” and smell a subtle hint of toasted rice and oil.
There once was a young girl who will one day realize that Felix is still alive. And always will be. He is made of socks, wool and two of her own fingers. She learns this when she unhooks the two safety pins on his face.
And then see's those little, sweet, runny, blinking black dots.
In my storytelling I symbolize the ecology between the self and the child self. The relationship between our fears and the ones we love, but can't seem to understand. Allowing oneself to suspend belief for a moment and see breath when looking at an inanimate object is similar to consciousness between asleep and wakefulness. What is presented is accepted. A simulation of childlike imagination. But also a reminder that that way of thinking has never quite left us. It is an opportunity to reflect on our anxieties and desires. The nightmares and dreams we all share.