I am utterly disconnected from; my childhood and teenage dreams, intensity, and passion. I usually sit in the car looking at a sky dense with the world’s prayers, hopes, and fears, and I can sense little me somewhere there .. calling me, but I can’t see her.
There was a time when looking at the heavens unlocked heavy doors to worlds of infinities; where authentic streets blurred under home-cooking smoke, spiraling from romantic chimneys of brown cottages overlooking heart-shaped lakes and streams of flowing possibilities.
But I can no longer pierce through the thick clouds.
There was a time when all I had to do was glance at the sea to be washed off its shore on a tender foam to universes where princesses dwell and gentlemen exist; where fairies fill up the air with magic dust, and happy endings prevailed. I could conjure myself on a terrace in a small house embraced by a mythical green mountain on a white cloud up high. I’d be having my morning coffee with my hair down while stories of people, life and love formed and dispersed before me. I’d be the heroine of my own paradise, a utopia where solitude doesn’t jeopardize popularity and beauty is immeasurable.
There was a time when all I had to do was close my eyes to sense the world through me, trace life as it cleanses my veins down to the smallest corner driven by my passion. My imagination refused to believe that I was living in replay, that life was actually lifeless, that dead people roamed on their feet and inhabited earth, that our needs can block the flow of possibilities, or that our minds can easily become our first enemy, sarcastically, in its own quest for a better life.
With imagine-less spirit, I watched with my daughter a Disney movie the other day. It sucked me in. I dive in intensely while I follow the eternal story of the princess and the witch, who would just not let her be happy. My eyes tear up mourning my princess who died giving up to my witch. My daughter asks: “Mommy, why are you watching?! These are not for big people!”
I look at her confused and in loss of words.
I was emotionally invested over a fairy tale. But I know now better than anyone, that fairy tales do not exist for real. The prince doesn’t come on a white horse, the princess beauty doesn’t always save her, and love doesn’t last forever, if at all. Passion is fleeting, but settling down is what we are fed. Put your feet down and try to stop the motion of the earth with your toes, try to stop moving, though everything around you is. We give in to the witch and eat her apple, because we are scared to taste other fruits.
The only true thing about fairy tales is the witch. Who is the witch? No one knows, but the witch exists every where. The witch is inside us, trying day and night to convince us that the story of the princess never happened; that such places where nature begets beauty everywhere doesn’t exist; that the prince was never born in the first place, and that as a witch she has never lost before.