I was adrift in an ocean once. It was all dark I could barely see the moon. Water pushed and pulled like I was a new shiny toy in the careless hands of a toddler. I waited for any boat to pass, for any sort of help, but my tired scream didn't echo through the water. For what felt like forever, I put logs together and built a raft. For what felt like forever, I rowed with my pale hands until the wood hit the shore.
I was thrown into a pack of hungry wolves once. It was a pack that didn't bother to clothe themselves with some sheep's clothing. I had no sword to defend myself. No blade, no shield, no power. In the end, I couldn't recognize my bloody figure. In the end, I befriended them with remains of their dewclaws printed all over me.
I was lost in a labyrinth once. It was a terrifying winding road with traps for turns and monsters mistaken as heroes. Nights were spent aimlessly with no sign of freedom. When I was cornered, all the light disappeared. Howls were heard. I could hear running footsteps approaching. I ran and ran and ran, dug and dug and dug, while the moon became the sun became the moon. I almost lost my breath when I saw walls no more.
Now, they see me avoiding the sea and regard me as "unconstructive for their causes". When they have to go into a small pond to retrieve their own things, only a foot high, they scream wildly like it is a pool of blood. Their rage then fires up, seeing me nearby with an even smaller pond, questioning the justice of it all. "She is so not deep. Hers is so not deep."
Now, they hear the warning from my mouth about the danger of the circus life. "She is lying", they surmise, "I bet there is no way she knows her way around the wolves." They open the door and find themselves surrounded by small skunks, screaming: "What did I say!" One of the skunks sprays its infamous liquid with odor so unpleasant and makes the whole room smell. They think they are dying. There is not even a scratch.
Now, they tell me they are the expert on the maze and proceed to show me one. They claim that years have honed them into a good street-reader. Rocks talk to them. Winds guide them. "Even the fairy lights here are so dim," warn them cautiously. I listen to them grumbling for hours about how the road is not wide enough or smooth enough while walking through a maze made of cardboard box mock-ups.
And they see me with stares saying how "unconstructive I am for their causes". I am pissed. I am angry. But the ocean is never their pond, just like how the wolves will never be their hunter. They don't know and they don't care—I just have to remember that. But I am still a little pissed. I am still a little angry.
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