I imagine a house in the woods. Down a narrow road with green growing up both sides. Infinite leaves and bark overhead and underfoot. Fog and four-legged creatures scampering about. I imagine a house made of glass. Crystal clear views in stereo surround. On display for the no one who can look in. And living in that house I could walk into the wood And scream. It would be nice to feel so heard.
What else would you learn, little Ella,
Each night asleep beneath the stairs?
Than to rise unencumbered
and with no regard for those who
upon you tread.
At twenty-eight I’ve put away childish things.
I still believe that people get what they earn
and reap what they sow.
I still believe in fairy-tales, dragons,
and monsters in the dark.
I still believe in white knights and glass slippers.
I still believe in true love
and good conquering all.
I still believe
but in the past ten years I’ve learned
that believing something doesn’t make it real.
The desire or expectation that life is to be lead with immediacy and moments are to be responded to instantly with little time for reflection, meditation, or the process of simply “being”.
Today is one of those days that I wish I could cry.
Even just a tear or two.
It has to feel better than the heavy smile I keep dragging up my face.