Blue Heart Boy is a love story in labour. The Wildforest is pregnant with it, conceived after an invisible secret courtship that never happened sometime in the middle of last year. January is the seventh month. Maybe it's a nine-month thing, maybe not. Maybe something happens in March. It's a wild story, all fierce and weepingly beautiful, and sharp, and painfully elusive, and most impossible. It is also light and sunshine and unexpected foolish smiles out of nowhere and anywhere.
But every love story has a shadow. And it is the Blue-Blind Boy. All tricky and kind and cruel at the same time. All real and too close with silences that slice like serrated claws. He wounds with the possible by denying it. He stains the impossible with dark hope. His very breath a curse in the wind. He shows up at every crossroad like a test. And I have to see through him, break through him.
Blue Heart Boy marks the trail. Blue-Blind Boy lays traps. But Blue-Blind Boy is not even hungry, he just likes catching things, and then he will complain why he can't have what he wants.
Blue Heart Boy is magic. Blue-Blind Boy is a test, until he isn't, until he is shadow merged with light, or until he is shadow burned away by light. And until then his grip is tight, his fingerprints are guilty all over my bruised beaten heart.
STORIES are what happen in the Impossible Garden & the Wildforest. They are the overheard conversations, the gossip of the flowers and the trees, the fragments written on bones and stones. They are the secrets whispered by the wind, the tales of the stars, the knowledge earned or traded with the forest dwellers. They are the fairy tales that had been forgotten or never told. They are the rules and the history and how they are repeatedly broken and rewritten. They are the murmurings of magic, the language of hidden love, the wildness beneath every order and the pattern beneath every chaos. They are truths and they are lies and in the end they are real to those who have the heart to see.
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