An Introduction to the Man in the Blue Box
I had never felt sufficient enough. I have never thought myself particularly pretty nor abnormally intelligent. I was never a good singer or painter or poet. There was never anything quite special about the entirety of my existence. I was always average in my mind. Then I met him. He thought quite differently of me as he often pointed out. He told me that I was brilliant and important, and I never would have realized that if he were not for him.
He, with his dazzling, satisfied grin and is northern accent. His blue box. He changed my life far more than I can put into words, and still, I know very little about him. And yet, I trust him fully. Not just because he save my life countless of times, or because he took me to worlds I could never dream up in a million years. It was more than that. I trusted him as though I had known him all my life and as if my life had not begun until I did meet him.
He, The Doctor. The man without a proper name. The man in the blue police box. The man who traveled despite the danger and who asked nothing in return. He, who sacrificed so much. He was the man who I had been so close to for so long, and yet was always out of my reach. The alien who I loved. Who vanished and reappeared in the blink of an eye.
That man was gone. And yet, here I sit, quite old now, with nothing to do but wait. What else was there but to reflect? He was not coming back. I know that and had dealt with that a long time ago, after our adventures ended. But I would still find myself looking up at the stars and wondering what planet he was saving now or what time he was in.
Of course a man like that could never stay. What would he stay for? He was my Peter Pan. Arriving at my window, as though I were Wendy Darling and taking me to far off places. But I had to return, as all who previously stood in my place had to.
There is no rest because he, himself, could not rest. And I, poor, weak Wendy, had to rest sooner or later. And when you must rest, you get left behind.
As I write my memoirs, I find that all my memories revolve around him. This common singularity. He was my everything, whether that is thought to the readers as ill or repudiate is up to them, but nonetheless, it is the truth.
He was my life's gift, and I am happy to say I had these memories at all. That I could be so lucky to have him in my life. I, who was never particularly pretty or abnormally intelligent. I, who thought myself so average and unimportant, was thought important by him. That is not something many people can say.
There are so many stories that could feel so many pages of so many books that could describe the many adventures of The Doctor. But my adventures were cut short, and I sit longing at times for the continuation I often felt I deserved. An end to what had begun but was sadly torn away. But alas, we cannot have everything we desire.
Therefore, as I sit writing, I feel my life's story revolves around him. What happened before I met The Doctor; What happened during our adventures, and what happened after our adventures came to an end. As I said before, he is the singularity in which my life revolves, therefore it seemed only fitting to introduce the man before I did anything else.
The dazzling man may live with the stars, and travel to thousands of planets and thousands of times, but he will still be The Doctor who I met on a cloudy morning, while leaving work in London in the middle of fall. To think that if I did anything differently that day- woke up a minute earlier or later, caught the wrong bus, left work on time, anything different- I would not have met that man. But I did. And although many years have passed since I have seen his unchanging face, I can visualize it as clearly as the day it happened when I turned on Brookshore Road and saw the strange man running toward me.