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Conspiracy theories are basically just fairy tales for adults, aren’t they?
It’s like I’m suddenly two people. At least two. You ever felt that way? There’s the me who’s running, and then the me who’s inside, watching it all and wondering what the fuck are you doing, man?
Love is a shape-shifting monster, she thinks, dizzy and horrified and exhausted and devastated. A werewolf with a bottomless stomach.
Our parents define so many things, she thinks. Love. Hate. Fear. Provider. Abuser. Abandoner. Monster. Mirror. They metamorphose. They mutate. They change. They are fairy tales with inscrutable illustrations.
Just a second of belief. Untainted by experience. Is that possible? To live in this world and not scare yourself to death? To feel turbulence and not imagine the plane going down? To experience hope as a grown-up with the same clarity a child feels terror?
