In between all the my-god-please-learn-how-to-suck-it-up fits, there were more than enough moments where I couldn’t help thinking bitterly that the expectations being put onto them were unreasonably high.
I imagine, when it comes to myth and fairytale, the most ordinary of ordinary people has as much a right to speak as an expert. So as a child of (mostly) the West, all I know is that in fairy tales, things come in groups of three:
A real story appends a lifetime of experiences into a single network of moral, political and religious beliefs, as well as fears and unanswered questions. In moments of incertitude and courage, it reveals itself chapter by chapter.
The girls’ pain was so loud it felt fake, like Taylor Swift songs and Tumblr. I wasn’t used to a hurt that dissolved, motionless. The hurt I knew about was so busy you could barely see it through the music.