It's not that I don't believe in fairy tales anymore. I do. They carry with them their own validity. But we reside in an imperfect world. The fragility of this sometimes brittle life breaks against itself. What are we left with after that? What can we say once the truth snatches the warm blanket off our comfortable, if not contrived existences?
It's not that I haven't been there. I have. I see her now like it was yesterday. That girl in the mirror. She ties the ribbon in a silly way, lovingly. At the time, it was the most instinctive of movements. Nothing to fear. Bold in her declarations of love. But who can be held accountable for words spoken while the stars are in their eyes?
Nowadays, stoic meetings and to-do lists have replaced tempestuous exchanges. On mornings, I rake a comb through my hair and bristle at the necessity of it all. Schedules and deadlines and grown-up business leave me unobservant of all those pretty things that came before.
But every now and then, with the frequency of a comet, I pick up a pen and gather it all. And revisit a place where I still laugh and wish.
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