Fairytale Ending

Fairytale endings are all they are cracked up to be, but not because anything ends. Or perhaps it is. Mostly it's that things begin. A life you imagined to be perfect, but isn't. It's something better, something real. There was a hidden room, behind that bookshelf, wasn't it? I was never really sure. Maybe I am still there.

The imagination is a funny thing. It makes everything better. And worse. Depending on the impending moment. Those are the people you might expect to be there, in your dreams. This is a fantasy fairytale. Or is it? Confusing is the least of my problems at this point. There was a beautiful crown. A tiara that sat upon my head. I gave it away, but only because it wouldn't burn like the rest of it. Who would have ever thought I could be a princess?

Growing from a glass jar, all I have ever needed is just a little water and sunlight. I survive quite well in this environment of cold frost and low fog. Or perhaps I don't. I can't seem to remember. There is something beautiful in the decomposition between the roots. It makes everything healthier, but it shouldn't. Then again.

Glass walls and streaming attentions, I feel a little more than whelmed. This is French vocabulary, I never learned any German. It wasn't really my thing. But then, did I ever really have a thing? I am waiting for the next adventure, but maybe I need to find it. There in a wardrobe perhaps or the Spine, a letter from a magical place or in a quest to dispose of a ring. There in Paris, in Netherfield, Avonlea, London, Seville, Rotterdam, the Black Forest, Heaven or Hell. Whichever is most real to me in the moment.

I close my eyes and reach my arms out in front of me. Fingers stretching, cold in the winter air. I can feel the mist settling around me as I take a step forward. A scarf finds itself wrapped around my eyes and I take another step. It isn't dark beneath the blindfold, I am not afraid. The grass is frost laden and my bare toes melt it blade by blade until they are as frozen as the ground beneath them. My hands are still out before me, but I am moving fast now. Running. Searching.

There are warm arms that always catch me. It doesn't matter where I am or where I am going. There are always there. And I know the chest that my head is cradled against. This is home. Not a house or a building. Not a bed or a sofa. Not material possessions, not things. This. This is where I belong. Always. This is my fairytale ending. Beginning.