Cedar: Anne Frank lived in the annexe for over two years. She was thirteen when she went in. She was never allowed outside. Sometimes she can peek out of the curtains but when there are people downstairs she has to sit in complete silence. She died when she was almost sixteen.
Me: Is it sad to know that she died?
Cedar: What do you mean?
Me: I mean, is it sad to read a book by someone who died, just a short time after writing those words?
Cedar: Not really. ‘Cause she doesn’t seem sad, so I’m not sad. She’s just getting on with it.
Inside the bubble it is always spring. The sky all around is blue and blossomy. I have forgotten my wristwatch somewhere and I have no inclination to find it. So there is no time in the bubble, or rather it is suddenly 11 o’clock, 2 o’clock, 7 o’clock, but there is no incrementation towards any given moment. They arrive, moments, without fanfare or progression. The thing that is happening in the bubble will happen whether I will it to or not. I am an actor but only an incidental one.
The bubble is egg shaped. It has a thin membrane and then, beyond that, I have the comprehension that there is a shell, strong but breakable. It is pale in colour and so I can, if I try, see shapes and dark colours through it. There are shadows in the beyond, things that are tempting and treacherous.
It is best not to notice the membrane, the shell, or the shape of the egg. Once I do, I feel a strange sensation quivering through me, delivering to me my ego. I am no longer incidental. I am trapped, confined, imprisoned in my own spring and I want out.
Pull away from the outer edges! Close the peek in the curtain on the world falling apart. Turn again towards the blossomy blue and the sound, like a singular laugh, that the pigeon’s wings make as it flies over the roof.
![](https://static.wixstatic.com/media/4b1cf2_087181db03e74d3ba61f84f7222ed9de~mv2.jpg/v1/fill/w_980,h_1307,al_c,q_85,usm_0.66_1.00_0.01,enc_auto/4b1cf2_087181db03e74d3ba61f84f7222ed9de~mv2.jpg)
Comments