Page 57 of Barbie: Dreamscape

Then, with a deep breath, I start down the path.

Magical Masquerade

When I was six years old, Robin gifted me a palette of colors. They were enchanted to create any shades I could dream up. I loved it. I started staying up late just to paint; I would stack canvases all through my room.

But then my studies intensified. Robin never explicitly told me not to have hobbies, or to focus only on school, but every top mark I brought to her was met with so much pride. Every painting I made… was met with something less enthusiastic, even though she was the one who gave me the tools to begin with.

So, over time, my brush and paints saw less and less use, until they were tucked away altogether beneath my bed. Unthought of until this journey.

I think about myself at that age now. About how my imagination felt limitless. Over the years, with the stress and expectations, I gradually built walls around it, fencing in my thoughts, constricting my creativity, until finally, I thought of wants and dreams as silly.

As I take the first few steps down this speckled path, I close my eyes and, one by one, I confront all those walls built up from the voice in my head that cared only about success.

Painting is a waste of time.

No it isn’t. It helps me understand the world. It makes me happy.

It’s a distraction from the things that matter.

This matters to me. Which makes it important.

You’re not even that good. Other people are better.

Not everything in life is a competition.

Your mother would be so disappointed.

No she wouldn’t. Now I know that for certain.

She was an artist, like me.

And maybe that’s why Robin looked so sad, seeing my paintings. Not because my time was being wasted… but because seeing me create art reminded her of her dearest friend.

Slowly, those walls within me start to crack, and my shoulders—they sag in relief. I didn’t realize all the weight I was carrying, of the expectations of my world… and also, of myself.

Why have I held myself to such an impossible standard?

Why did I think that if I wasn’t perfect, Robin wouldn’t love me?

Her reaction after Boxing Day made it clear that wasn’t true.

Maybe if I understood that, I would have done more things for the sake of loving them and not for the impossible pursuit of perfection.

I take a steadying breath and try to go back to that innocent, unburdened mindset of being young enough to not understand the reality of responsibilities, and work, and life, and Fates. The time I had a direct line to my heart. To my soul.

I open my eyes. I’m only a few feet down the path.

Trees frame each side, waiting like an audience, rustling gently in the pine-swept breeze. The creatures who will be my ticket into the ball lurk in the shadows somewhere beyond.

Let the world be your palette.

I don’t exactly know how these gloves work, but I can take a guess. If my fingers are the brushes… now I just need colors.

I venture a little ways off the path, back into the forest. I don’t know if this will work, but before I can doubt myself, I press a pine needle between my fingers and watch a drop of brilliant green color leach out of it, as if nature has released a tear.

It seeps into one of my gloved fingers and glows, the hue contained, ready to use.

My face breaks into a grin. My eyes widen in wonder.