I have this fairytale inside me, buried way down deep. It’s made of all the things I’ve ever read and some I haven’t. Its characters are molded by glitter and the shimmer of a will o’ the wisp on a starless night. Its villains are stark in contrast, dark stains on a satin sheet. This fairytale, it grows and builds, the beating heart of all that I could ever hope to be. It drives me. Sometimes to madness, sometimes to bliss, sometimes to a state of comprehension and misunderstanding that I’ll never reach again.
This fairytale is a beast, a feast, a famine, a genuine eccentricity in a world of sheep, a breath on a warm breeze. It’s all this and nothing. Like the dank crevice behind an archaic bookcase, it waits to be found, to be given life and the flame of the dragon.
This fairytale is a light in the darkness, a warning, a threshold into a new world, an undiscovered channel, a weed in a bed of wildflowers.
(Image via Pinterest)
Live. Love. Write.