There are a lot of things in life that trouble me, things I have no control over, and some of the things that I do. It was one of those, I suppose, that I’m writing about, the things that I’ve put my characters through…

“Creator?” Asked the boy, “Why did you trap me in a well?”

“To help you learn, to give you a story that could give you cause to grow.” I replied, or, rather I think I did… I’m not sure if was a dream, or a an actual visit from my timid young creation.

“To learn what, creator? Couldn’t you have given me the knowledge with out having to have been stuck in that well? It hurt awfully so.”

“Why to make it matter, matter to you, matter to those that read of you.”

“But it hurt so much, couldn’t you have made it less so?”

“I wanted to, my child, I do wanted to, but the best stories aren’t told through the inexperienced. That said, I did try… I gave you a friend to guide you, a hole to return to, and the strength to get out.”

“That, that was you? Are you the well? The one that talked with me?”

“No- no, not quite… I merely told the well what to say to you, what comfort to give.”

“Why did the thing that you trapped me in wanted to get out?”

“Because not everyone or everything is as it always appears to be, and not everything bad is meant to be bad.”

“How could that be?”

“To grow, there must be something to grow from.”

“… so you made me hurt to grow?”

“I didn’t make you hurt.”

“But you wrote me that way, what do you mean!?”

“I let you be in a situation where you could hurt, so you could choose to grow.”

“Choose to grow? But the Well helped me!”

“Would I be so cruel to let a young boy face the world all alone?”

“I don’t understand.”

“Why, isn’t that the point?”

“To not understand?”

“My child, it is to know the joy of learning no matter how painful it might start off being…”

“Joy?”

“Why yes, a thing you would know unless you’ve faced pain.”

“So if I didn’t hurt I would be happy?”

“Yes, dear boy, you wouldn’t know happiness.”

“Well, now that sounds cruel. I think I would rather know happiness than know everything, I think.”

“You think? Why then! I do say, that you’ll make an astonishing young man.” Was the last thing I remember saying to him. After which a bright light, and he was gone, leaving me to ponder his questions, and the answers I gave him… was I as honest as I could have been? Did I mean the things I told him, or was I secretly cruel, and lost inside? No matter though, I guess. That’s the joy of being imperfect: I get to find out.