Once upon a time, there was a little girl who liked to make paper cranes when she was sad. They weren’t always perfect; some were wonky, some ripped here and there, some messy, sometimes the folds wouldn’t come out as well as she hoped. But not once did she throw one away. Each one she kept as if it stored some part of her soul. Sometimes, with a needle and thread, she would string through these paper cranes a thin thread, tie a knot and reach high above her so that her fingertips brushed the ceiling. She would stretch as far as she could, stick the thin piece of string there, and then another delicate little bird would float from above, hanging over her bed as if by itself. Soon enough, the empty space above her bed was full of birds that drifted calmly on unseen breezes, reminding her that there was peace even in her worst moments.
Some of these birds weren’t quite the same as the others. Most were made of scrap pieces of paper, the first thing she could find in her distress; newspaper, old work, magazines, scrap paper.  But sometimes, if she was feeling especially overwhelmed, overcome with all the thoughts in her head, she would take a piece of paper, old, new, scrap, find the closest pen to her, and write. In an illegible scrawl, she scratched out her everything she felt, everything she was afraid of, everything she felt was out of her control, and wrote until she felt no more. And then she would delicately fold her crane with shaking hands, eyes sometimes misty, and string it up among the others. No one saw what was hiding in plain sight, the ugliness of her thoughts hidden amongst their beauty.Â
She lost count of the number of these birds she made, folding them became second nature to her fingertips. She would make them in her room, outside, in class, at dinner, whenever a square piece of paper came across her. Always taking solace in the fact that no matter how ugly her thoughts became, they could still make something beautiful.
