From the fifth dimension, the sound of the swing set creates visible, discordant ripples across the quantum field. She goes back and forth, back and forth. Trying to disturb the isolated torment of silence with her movements. The sunlight comforts the strands of her hair. It shines gold wherever the sunlight touches. Her cheeks are dry. There are no tear stains where there should be. She has grown accustomed to the reliable consistency of pain.
Two girls, living out the same life. Perfect mirrors of each other. Miles apart in the same country. Unaware of each other. Unaware that in the future, their paths will converge. They wont be alone anymore.
There is a kind of inauthenticity that is unintentional. It just happens because most of us are inspired to share beautiful things. When you look through a photo album belonging to a family where incest or alcoholism is going on, you don’t see pictures of a father fingering his daughter when she’s in diapers. You don’t see images of her arms cut up when she is a teen. You don’t see pictures of alcohol bottles and beaten faces. You don't see pictures of the kids hiding in the closet. It’s not that they are hiding it intentionally. It’s that no one feels inspired to take those pictures. No one feels inspired to make a scrapbook out of them. No one wants to keep those moments, regardless of how the mind is haunted by them.
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