[Original] Wishing Only Wounds The Heart
current mood: disappointed
current song: Final Distance by Utada Hikaru
Fifteen and she wastes her days away daydreaming, a habit acquired as a silly child. She’s grown up as a dreamer; grown up believing in fairytales and magic and castles in the sky. She has believed in unicorns and princess in far away lands; dragons and princes on pure white stallions. She has believed in witches and wizards that roamed the world and fairies that danced in the twilit sky. She has known that werewolves appear on full-moon nights and true love was only a glass slipper away.
Fifteen and she can’t let go of foolish beliefs and silly fantasies. The stories of real, true, everlasting love still ring in her mind, a constant reminder or everything she has ever wanted. She still worships the epic tales of sorcery and bravery that rest on her bedside table, her very own bible. She still lets her imagination chase her into a land of flower fields and purple skies. She knows, knows she’s too old to get caught up in these storybooks. She’s too old and yet she can’t resist, the worn leather cover beckoning her in, urging her to get lost in a world where dreams really do come true.
Fifteen and she still wishes for the chance to fly through that endless, brilliantly blue sky; to fly and have the wind in her hair and to be free, so gloriously free and alive. To soar and swoop and float and glide like a bird or a dragon or a brilliantly colored balloon. She still diligently hopes for that letter born on snowy white owls, telling her, telling her that she is one of them. That she is special. That she can make a difference. She is still waiting for the simple sign that magic is real, so very real, and a part of her.
Fifteen and she is torn between believing, believing like she so badly wants to, or accepting the truth, realizing it’s all an elaborate dream, a beautiful lie. Her childish desire, her faith in fairytales and bedtime stories keeps her going, keeps her believing and hoping and waiting. Yet waiting just isn’t good enough in this life. She knows it all too well, knows the folly in dreaming of the impossible. She’s grown bitter and pessimistic because sometimes it’s so hard to believe, so hard to believe when there is no proof.
Fifteen and she’s starting to think maybe it’s better to have never dreamed all at. At least then she wouldn’t feel so broken and foolish and betrayed. At least then she wouldn’t cry as she watches stars twinkle and shine, spawning a thousand more dreams to be broken.