The Doll and All Its Broken Parts

Weekly Diary Entry

The doll is prepared and taken out, ready for the stage: let the performance begin!

It must be known that during the ordeal, the doll tightly holds on to the hands which control it, the very same hands which reduce it to a constant state of subservience (a state that the doll despises to its very core). This unfortunate behaviour is a visceral reaction to the blinding lights emanating from the stage on which this porcelain tchotchke is trapped; a pathetic survival instinct from which nothing is ever felt nor true; a display of a learned behaviour projected to survive the show, to survive the gazes; a result of the reluctant nurture received from one who cannot truly love.

Now enters the doll maker: as renowned and talented as she is beautiful, this craftswoman creates dolls as prim and pretty and proper and perfectly acceptable as she. Her reputation precedes her, for as you can imagine, she has successfully created perfectly splendid tchotchkes throughout her whole life; dolls so beautiful that all could only gaze and praise their pristine presentations and lovable mannerisms. It is the craftswoman’s life purpose—that she very much believes—to create lawful beauties which carry her own wondrous image.

Unfortunately, this story is not about one of her typical creations, rather it is about that one mistake; the only doll she created that did not carry the palatable beauty nor likability she wished it would; a being of porcelain that displays unconventional mannerisms, an unremarkable if at least understated appearance, and an unfortunate heart filled with oddity and heaviness.

This doll carries no delusions in its inorganic heart: it is very much aware that it is an unfit, inferior and even repugnant rendition of the other creations, a constant reminder of the doll maker’s failure. Something that isn’t meant to exist.

The porcelain being wishes to share with you its shame, its alienation, its melancholy. Feel its inert yet intense heart.