Once upon a time
in a little house
in northern Minnesota
there was born a crack.
This crack started off very small
as most of us do.
It was barely noticible.
It hid in the plaster of the ceiling
growing a little larger
as the roof above let in the heat
and the cold
and the damp
and the sorrow of the world around it.
The crack was patient
and whispered to itself at night.
"I know that there is more to life
than what exists here in this ceiling.
I know that there are other things that I can grow up to be."
The crack's family ran their hands over it occasionally
tutted, clucked, and shook their heads.
They tried to fix the crack
and the disillusion that is common to those that believe.
Believe, that is, not in God nor angels, nor forces greater than themselves
but rather a belief
that if you close your eyes
and pretend that it doesn't exist
it will go away.
This theory has been proven dangerous, and sometimes deadly
like those who swim unknowingly with sharks
or blunder into the den of a grizzley bear.
What you don't know
what you refuse to acknowledge
can hurt you.
This, the little crack proved, all on its own.
As it clawed, and stretched, and made a horrible noise at 1:30 in the morning.
It realized that the time had come. It didn't care that someone was sitting beneath it. It didn't care that the person was a sleepless teen who had shared her room with the crack in a wary relationship for years.
Like a rebellious teen itself, the crack wanted to be something new.
Something like a big fucking hole in the ceiling.