When I was between the age of four and six and when my family lived in the community of tiny half-dilapidated apartments, I used to play a lot with my two best friends in the square park in front of my apartment building. Among one of the things we played most often was the game called “Help Me!”.
The rule of this game was simple. First, we all sat at the top of the slide. Then one of us started sliding the slide backward, stretching out the arms and screaming “Help!”, and the other two tried their best to help her come back to the top. But in order to make the game interesting, they not only helped, but also created obstacles by stomping on the slide and making the slide shake a little. The whole point of this play was to immerse ourselves in an imaginary adventure, picturing us at the cliff top, trying to save our mate in the difficult situation.
In the middle of the floor at the top of the slide, there was a small round hole where I could poke my finger in. When I was sitting at the top as part of the helper team, I sometimes spaced out from the dramatic adventure and looked through this hole. There I would see nothing but the ground far below along with grasses. Such a boring scenery, but seen through this tiny hole, it somehow felt magical, making me imagine that I was hovering really high above the ground with my friends, having a real adventure.
After a while, my friends would call me and I would go back to participate in the “Help Me!” game with a loud scream and a renewed sense of excitement.