Title: Peter Pan in the Desert

By: Spoonvonstup

Disclaimer: Let's see here... I belong to... me? Yes, yes I do. Mom belongs to herself. I do *not* own Cold Play or Peter Pan or The Joy Luck Club. And I got the idea for Estrella from a novel I read in first-ish grade.

Explanation: Mom and I were road-tripping across the southern US for California, site of my Dad's newest transfer. And when the radio played that song, all these thoughts sprang from my head and I had to write them down. Of course, I was slightly depressed at the time for understandable reasons, and some reflections include a return to my childhood imaginary friend.
I'm not crazy, I swear! But yes, this *did* happen.

A song came on the radio that made me think of Peter Pan. You know, that one by Cold Play on the commercial for the new movie? Well, anyway, it made me realize, I wanted to be him and fly away to Never-Never Land. I wanted to leave the world behind and run with my Spirit Horse, Estrella, across the flat plains and disappear into the mist of the base of the mountains on the horizon.
But I could not. I was sitting in the car with Mom, driving to San Francisco, reading The_Joy_Luck_Club. And I suddenly knew that I would not be able to run free with Estrella to my land of fantasies, because that was not I. I am a dreamer whose dreams never come true.
I am the one who reaches and grasps and searches for that which cannot be. I have no hope for myself. But, I realized, in me may lay hope for others. One can only reach so high, standing above on my pillar of salt tears. From my peak, however, I can push others to the moon. I will never be Wendy and travel with Peter to a land here no one needs to grow up, nor will I soar with dragons. That is not my fate. I will watch the others flying, and write to show the rest the way.
My mom asked me why I was crying. How can I explain a simple realization that shattered all future hope for myself? And how to explain that grieving for the death of my childhood is part of my tears, the other part for those I could prevent turning into me? It cannot be spoken. But perhaps, perhaps it can be written.
I'm very cold in this hotel room and my hand hurts from writing. But though my eyes want to fill with tears again, for a moment, I am content with my flash of, though destructive, clear understanding. But who knows what I may see tomorrow? It is a strange feeling, strange and, for a moment, not confused, but always ready to shatter in the slightest breeze. I know I have lost hope, but I do not feel afraid right now. Hope is a funny thing, hard to get rid of, even if you have none for yourself.