Let's admit how we believed in twinkling stars at night because they grant our wishes well enough for us to sleep in glee. And wake up with none of the worries we carry on our knees right now.
Let's carve in our grave how we lived for that fairytale until we were old enough for Neverland. That we were once hopeful children of enchanted nymphs and pastel fairies living in wonderland for they heal wounds in stardusts that planted love bugs in our lungs. So we could speak of poetry and odes from the love we had in our home to the purest form of passion we felt for the people that had a piece of our hearts.
We photograph the butterflies and other magical dwarves as though truths were filmed in that album but they were just lies angled in a forbidden beauty that when one beholds they either choke in ethereality or simply be blinded by reality.
And cannot blame you for turning your back onto us misanthropes for I daresay, I was once a child of primeval love lilies. One day, the ignorance in your veins will overflow that you can no longer spit rainbows and monochromes to your well-glittered letters. Just like how our childhood bliss fade over decades, some of us will wish for solitude when they are failing to acknowledge themselves in the museum of mirrors because blessed are those children of Tyche that I have heard from a blind acquaintance.
And that even in the most dreamy world where we lived, it is always not a fairytale-like ending for nothing is more real than the scars on our bones we failed to conceal of love remedy.
