I'm a girl in my early teens wandering alone through the ruins of civilization. What happened, exactly? Well, it's strange: when I look at the past, I see not one path but whole sheaves of timelines, translucently superimposed like book-pages. This whole world of the ruins is sort of theoretical--a fiction. My life is fiction!

Paperback fiction. Pulp fiction. My life is an endless string of adventures--avoiding danger and seeking food, warmth, friends, love... Primal, simple needs. That's why civilized people long to see civilization fall. Barbarism is entertaining--at least in theory.

But not in practice, not for me. I have to face it--I don't share my readers' appetites. I don't like having Xena adventures. I hated civilization too, but not for the reason you all did--civilization was already barbaric and dangerous for me. You see, I have environmental illness--a long list of food allergies, chemical sensitivities. Everyday life was so risky, I was never bored! Exhausted from chronic vigilance, yes... just like life today, in the ruins. For me, danger is nothing new.

And no fun.

You'd hate my wussy paradise--just as I hate yours.

IN THE MORNING

I woke up thinking "so that's why I hate most fiction out there! It fails to address my concerns, not because the writers aren't competent, but because they're busy meeting the needs of readers basically unlike me: a safe but bored majority."

So the dream warns my writing's a minority taste. Hell, not just writing; my art and music too. Better accept that I can only reach a small audience--not exactly an elite. But different.

Older civilizations call us sensitive. In America, though, the word is wuss. Wussy wimp. Which, by the way, started out as slang euphemisms of more obvious terms which you still hear in sports when the cameras aren't on: "You pussy! You woman!"

The ultimate insults. For boys.

The illustration is by William N. McPheeters--it's the opening panel of a moody wordless painted comic titled "Exit/In", done way back in 1979. I saw it in Heavy Metal and never forgot it. I think it inspired the dream.

The theme is clearly a reaction to the book "The Highly Sensitive Person" by Elaine Aron; she argues that sensitivity and even fragility aren't pathological; such people are useful to a group, and valued in most cultures.

Just not in America.

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