Inside the dollhouse

The girl sat in her chair, waiting for something to just happen. She knew nothing would happen. But she waited nonetheless. She was alive, of that she was sure. Yet everything seemed sort of dead. The radio was on. The fan spun. The radiator sighed.

There was something stirring inside of her, something that needed to change. She felt stagnant. Move, it said to her. Move or die.

Instead she sat there, drinking ginger ale and thinking about the day ahead of her. There were still things to look forward to. People to entertain her. Events to dress up for. People and events were the spice to the bland diet of her daily life. She created drama in her mind for the sake of it. Kind of like a child with a doll and a dollhouse. Pieces of plastic and cardboard transformed into a person and a home with a story.

Maybe she was the doll in the dollhouse. Everything was plastic and not real.

That's depressing, she thought to herself. She knew some things had to be real. Love, for example. Where it resided was another question. Friendships were real. Family. Ambitions.

All was not lost, she assured herself. Still though, as she sat at her desk, she felt like something had to change. Everything was a pattern waiting to be broken, waiting to be mended into something else. Into something new.