The home I am in now, has a crawlspace in the attic. It is an old fixture in my memories. Being the tomboyish child that I was, I was frequently sent up by my grandparents to (and I took pride in doing this, this felt like a special thing that was just between my grandfather and I) ferry things to and from that crawlspace. There was a time when my grandfather stepped away for a whole ten minutes or so. I had fallen asleep there. It was roomy enough for a child, especially a feline-esque child of average build like me. Then again perhaps it could have been more than ten minutes because my perception of time was fairly skewed and it was in those times that I didn’t know to read time on watches, nor did we have smartphones like today. I often played in the attic, I would climb up the steel ladder with no significant trepidation and once in, it was like Hogwarts, Narnia, and everything enchanting thrown into one. In reality and retrospect, I realise it was my imagination that made that space so fascinating for me.
I am looking up at the crawlspace and while thinking up ideas for my next blog entry, an image started to form. Of a girl secretly living there, unknown to the residents of this house. Half way through plotting out her adventures, it dawned on me that this had already been done. Famously. By Anne Frank. The Diary of Anne Frank, published by her dad, Otto. It has been ages since I read the book or even thought about her, not since that night in 2017 whilst conversing about WWII with a friend. Bereft of plots, I sit here, looking half longingly at the crawlspace wanting to go back in there, furnish it and live there for some time. My shoulder painfully clicks into place, a reminder that perhaps some adventures are best reframed colourfully on paper, or in living on in the vestiges of memory. Of course I don’t want to literally crawl into a hole. There are days when I feel like that though, I must admit. For although I like reframing my positive experiences for the amusement of others, the criticism does cut deep. It is like taking a thin, sharp blade to my vein and then seeing how much of a spurt you get. Some people think they are so damn special that they can walk about jabbing people in the neck. Who are these assholes, these shallow shells, these miserable excuses for “humans”? Do you even pause to think about the impact of your words? Do you know that someone’s pillow might be moistened by your words, you numb skull? As self aware as we may be, this strength and will deserts us when we need it. Subject to this form of venom for long, one might go into the crawlspace in their mind and stay there but I implore of you to not push me too far because when I do come out of my crawlspace, I will emerge freshly birthed from the same flames that will lick away at the blackness of your being and raze it to nothingness.