The dollhouse view is, in a sense, a transcendent one. When you move close to that tiny door, the books inside grow larger, their words clearer. You find yourself both within the world and somehow beyond it—observing life as if through glass, yet still breathing its air. Everything inside seems fragile, deliberate, and strangely eternal.
My own growing up has felt like entering that dollhouse. I do not mind its narrowness; I find comfort in its measured scale. To pick up a book is, to me, the purest act of being human—to live, to feel, to think. Each page opens another room, another lighted window.
I know I will never abandon the gentleness—the subtle way of seeing, the delicate emotions that make me who I am. They are my small furniture, my fragile porcelain cups—easily broken, yet impossible to replace.
Even now, I still cry. The world is so scalding, so unbearably scalding. I think of Flowers for Algernon, and the ache of watching brightness fade—the knowledge that intelligence, beauty, and innocence can coexist only for a moment before time takes its toll. Still, that moment is enough; it is where humanity glimmers most vividly.
Those books in the dollhouse seemed to have been placed carefully by their gentle master—a little girl. I imagine her small hands arranging the spines, dusting the shelves, believing that stories could protect what life cannot. Perhaps this is one way to understand what Western eyes call God: not as a ruler from above, but as a quiet caretaker of meaning, placing each story in its place, trusting that someone, someday, will lean close enough to see.