Once upon a time there was a yurt (or maybe a tippi) and I was invited to come in. It was dark outside and even darker inside but for a fire burning. The place was empty and I waited a little, standing... for someone to come I suppose? That someone came, sat down on the opposite side of the fire and finally offered me to sit down, too.
There were not many words exchanged. What I do remember though is that eventually I noticed in front and on my left hand side a young girl curled up so that she melted with the surroundings, invisible and quiet. I'd say she was 4 or 5 years-old and looking sad, spotty on her face. She seemed that to carry all the sins of the world on her shoulders. After this brief vision, she disappeared from sight under a heavy, thick cloak.
I've met her again and again over the last few years. I forgot about her, then stumbled upon her cloak and her spotty face, then forgot her again... each encounter brought a little bit more awareness from me and a little bit more life from her. So much so that in the last few weeks, I have actually been wanting to sit down with her, under her cloak.
She's told me her name: Clairette.
She's told me bits of her story: she'd been kept under that cloak for years by a blond girl who lived in a tower, who had a wonderful view over the country and yet was not happy. That blond girl's name is Clairon. When the cloak would slip off her head, Clairon would be there to put it back in place.
Clairon is now loosing strength and the cloak slips more and more often, further and further away. The misery on Clairette's face is fading, the spots drying out and resorbing. She's growing as a beautiful young girl. The grip of Clairon's longing for the perfect life, the perfect man, the perfect job, the perfect attitude, the perfect house, the perfect children... is receding. As much as she'd like her times in charge to be as before, those times are becoming shorter and more sparse.