About Dolls and Childhood Love Stories.

You lose your favorite doll, the one dearest to you. You’re upset and you cry about it; you mourn for a long, long time. Too long, that when your mother realizes and gets you another one, even better than the old one, you smash it in pieces. How can she think it’s replaceable?
When others follow and fall into your possession, similar and different – all colors, shapes and sizes, you do the same. You destroy them.

You stop browsing toy store windows in fear of coming across a replica, or anything that looked similar, reminded you of it. You refuse to enter toy stores you once begged your mother to take you to. You’re changed. You’re not the same happy kid you used to be.

But time passes, and life goes on, and you grow up and start forgetting, slowly. You’ve been sad for too long, about a doll, of all things; and it seems childish and silly to hold that grudge now.

Then one day, it turns up out of the blue. She turns up out of the blue. She’s just suddenly… there. Back in your face, back in your life. Dusty, scarred with age and a little rotten at the edges. At first you cry, then rejoice your reuniting. You’re that happy kid once again. You’re reminded of your youth, innocence, all the happy times you shared.

You vow to never let it go, never part that doll anymore; in attempts of keeping a part of your past with you, always.

But then you realize things like these are to be passed down to your children, as the time will come, soon, that you’d be silly to carry around a doll. Your children will pass it down to their own, but they won’t understand its value. They won’t treat it as special as you could, or so you think.

So you decide to keep it a secret. You decide to hide it – her – away from the rest of the world, and keep her for yourself. Not necessarily to do anything with, but have her to hold and to keep, so that you can turn back to her whenever you feel lonely, upset, or even bored.

You share your daily whereabouts, tell her about your life, and expect nothing in return, but for her to listen.

At first she’s glad to, but then she starts to wonder:
What if I’d stayed hidden? What if someone else had found me?

But this doll feels she has no identity, no one to be with in a place like this. In this world. In his messed up world she’s hearing too much about, but is nowhere near experiencing. But she stays quiet. Because after all, she is a doll. And will probably never feel what it’s like to have legs of her own, to get to walk a road she paved out for herself. But what could she do, after all? She has no choice. She’s bound by her immobility.

She’s mine and no one will ever be able to love her like I do, you think.

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