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Someone once said Children don't grow up into different people as adults, they grow parts around themselves. The child is still there inside scratching at walls trying to break free.
With all of its joys...
With all of its woes...
A house built of glass reflects what it sees, joy or sorrow, trust or doubt, love or hate. It's not there to coax, it's there to show you the truth. Their truth.
They had a fairy tale, the four of them, their happily ever after...
But can it survive all of the pent up bottled trauma, how long will it even last...
After all a clean slate with witness marks is no canvas.
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rajvansh
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