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When you pass by Magnoila Street you may see an old brick house with half stained glass, flowers and weeds growing together in the garden, and various paint cans hanging from the tree branches, you may think is fun and colorful, and full of personality. A good story for friends.

However, Patricia Nelson from next door would huff and puff and complain every few days when a new project would pop up in the front yard yet again. To this day she still brings up the pyrotechnics incident from two years ago at every town meeting.

Granny Callie from two houses on the left on the other hand is elated every time. She helps with the music sheets, offers advice on the type of wood or the perfect ballet shoes.

Her son’s family rarely visits so it keeps her busy.

There are others, like Mr. Petterson, or Jimmy, or Tammy and Dora, each with their own opinions, each with their own stories.

The whispers and chatter, good or bad, never bother Cassandra though.

The tiny brick house, cluttered with every idea she’s ever had is more Haven than Haven ever was.

She’s been here for about a handful of years, fallen in the same tree she now hangs paint cans she forgets about.

Just like that, her wish has been granted, she had a name, a body and a world full of possibilities.

The rush never stopped, never wavered, never diminished in the slightest.

So, since that day she keeps trying everything.

Everything until something sticks, something fits.

 She tries making clothes for the first time.

It can not be that hard. Humans have done it for a while now.

She uses a curtain, thread and a small needle. It doesn’t work like she thinks it would.

The needle is tiny and hurts and pokes, the thread is bright yellow while the curtain is a light green.

Between knots and bloody fingers...there comes a dress. It’s somehow big and small at the same time, the front part is longer on the left and one shoulder is unintentionally strapless.

She twirls in it barefoot until the needle pokes her in the ribs. She will learn to take it out next time. 

She’s better after a while, knows how and where to put pockets, uses lace and denim and all the fabrics. They never come out perfect but close enough.

However, the twirl doesn’t come as easily. (It does bring her a job at the fabric store she’s pretty bad at but keeps anyway)

She shrugs and tries something else.

Gardening is fun for a time but is too slow and too full of rules. Who says dandelion isn’t a flower anyway?

Weeds always grow bigger and prettier anyway.

To this day she still thinks about planting tulips or roses or peonies. It flies out of her mind as fast as it comes but it’s something, righ?.

Sculpting and tree climbing have been equally amazing as they have been dangerous. They never keep her interest past the broken arm or the whole 'almost cutting off her left foot' episode.

She tries various instruments from piano to panflute. She’s equally bad at all of them but the tuba makes her laugh and she keeps that one for a while longer.

So through painting and dancing, building birdhouses and pouring cement she keeps on trying.

It’s elation an ecstasy and happiness. There are times when she decides it’s enough, times when the risks are too high or times when she simply gets distracted and forgets about it.

There are grand things like parkour or quiet ones like meditation or writing poetry.

Cassandra tries them all.

It’s the sunny afternoon when she had taken up cartography on the front porch that the wind blows the hair in her face and it stings worse than the tiny needle.

It’s so easy to miss that she almost thinks she does.

She drops everything - books, papers and the broken compass she’s been trying to fix during her inventor stage - and runs inside to the mirror.

Well, running is a big fancy word for stumbling her way through years of half started projects.

She jumps over the juggling balls easily, avoids the box with magic tricks and dodges the pottery set like the best of them.

It's the yarn ball that takes her down in the end.

Luckily she falls on the origami pile and not in the history books one (hardcovers leave bruises if you don’t pay attention.

Standing up and getting to the bathroom is done with minimal damage, though she flips over the bowl with pretty rocks by mistake.

She has to move the candle-making set she abandoned two weeks ago next to the sink but the image in the mirror is clear.

Cassandra looks almost the same, with big doe eyes, round face, freckles on her nose and cheeks. Her hair is still auburn and curly.

She finds it faster than she wants to. The white hair strand mocks her and she has to fight the urge to rip it out and go back to cartography or to her vegetable garden or soap making.

It wouldn’t do anything.

Cassandra knows what it means.

She’s feeble, temporary, mortal.

She knows that already, always did. It never felt real though.

Cuts and bruises are one thing. Time is a whole other type of creature she’s never met before.

Looking around Cassandra sees wigs she bought the time cutting hair felt right.

It didn’t stick. Nothing ever does.

Sure, she laughed when she roller-bladed right into the kitchen wall, and the fire department enjoyed the cupcakes even though the alarm woke up half the neighbourhood. Sure, making bracelets, rings and pendants felt good in the beginning, yet running gave her the opportunity to move around and it was a much faster option.

The phonographs are still hanging on the string above the tub forgotten, most of them with her finger corrupting half the image.

It’s not that she wants to be good at them or repeat the activity on a loop until her whole hair is gray but it needs to fit.

But why would it do that?

Cassandra laughs.

The world is big and endless, and there’s always something else to use your time on.

How is she to settle on something when she only sees fractured pieces of everything?

“There so much to do” she whisperers to herself, leaning down against the tub “So much to see...There’s so much...”

And she’s never been good at choosing.