A story has been told, of a girl. A girl, unique as every other, average as every other. We shall call her Loco.
The story tells us how this girl, when she was younger, sometimes used to find herself awake in the middle of the night. She’d scoot over to her window, draw the curtains back just a tiny bit, and peek outside into the night. She’d look up at the stars and marvel at their beauty. Or stare into the inky darkness, when it was starless, and be drawn into the black fluidity, painting into it wondrous dreams.
The story further unfolds to tell how young Loco, at the first indication of illness; a fleeting headache, a sting, a queasy stomach… would be cast into glee, imagining the opportunity illness presented, for her to get out of the dull routine of childlife, and spend a day at home with all sorts of freedom to abuse.
The girl in our story, as with all young girls, grew older, because life, even in all its complexity, gives no choice in matters of growing old.
And in the story, Loco, still a girl, but with more years to show on her resume of life, still found herself awake in the middle of the night sometimes. And she’d still scoot over to her window, draw the curtains back a bit and peek outside in the night. And she’d sit there, not marvelling, but frozen in terror. The light of the stars now cast shadows in the dark, each an intruder. The inky black of the night was now alive, not with wondrous dreams, but with ghouls breaking down the door to get her.
And this girl in the story, just an older young Loco, would, as most humans do, sometimes, feel ill; the occasional cough, the blush of a fever, a whirl in her tummy… But this no longer brought with it glee, or the hope for freedom. There was only the chill of fear, the premonition of doom at the thought of what illness might bring.
It’s a funny kind of sad, this story, because, the fear that grips our girl, reminds her, that life is too short, too fleeting not to be savored. And it’s a sad kind of funny, that this same fear, holds our girl back from relishing each moment in the story of her life.
If only she remembered not to forget that she doesn’t need to be reminded, just like the young girl in our story.
As far as stories go, this is not a fairytale, so the author cannot guarantee that our Loco lived happily ever after. The end.
Therapy. Mukimo. Sex. The City In The Sun. 
That girl in the story, sounds intriguing. Surely there has to be more in the story, right?
As far as intrigue goes, I can’t tell, but the story on the other hand, definitely has much more to it, who knows, perhaps the author may add to the commentary as it unfolds 😉
*Awaits patiently…* 🙂