Author's Note: I've said it before, I'll say it again. I have a fixation on second person. I don't know why, but it's easier for me to write second person, and it seems better when I do. So take that, Mrs. Shoemake! Second person is not evil!
And just for future reference (and because the cold medication just took hold) if you rearrange the letters in T.S. Eliot, you spell toilets. Try it, you'll see I'm right. That has nothing whatsoever to do with this story.

First Star on the Right

"She said 'life's a lot to think about, sometimes.'"
-3 Doors Down

You can stand here for hours, contemplating deep thoughts about life and death and the world and the universe and humanity and the future and the past and some story you never lived but kind of wish you did.

It's funny, almost. You aren't happy with your life, but you know that if you stopped trying to make yourself be happy you would be. It's difficult, though. You make up fantasy tales of princes and dragons and witches because they make life seem interesting. Your life could never compare to the stories you've read. You'll never go to Hogwarts. You'll never come in contact with the One Ring or a Sindarin Elf. You'll never walk into a wardrobe and find Narnia. Those stories are wonderful and pretty and all, but they make you thirst for something more, something deeper in your life that you can't get, because it doesn't actually exist.

Peter Pan had your problem, didn't he? He never wanted to grow up, so he lived in Never Never Land with Captain Hook and Skull Rock and Tinker Bell and mermaids and Tiger Lily, a world where kids never grew into adults.

It's the type of world you'd kill for, because right now, you're losing the child you used to be. You're growing up, seeing the world through more mature eyes, and you don't want to let go of the fairy tales or your princess dreams. They were a lot of fun, but there's no room in the real world for fun. It's all numbers and cold, hard reality. Maybe that's why, every now and then, when no one else is home to see you, you plug in the VCR that you haven't touched in years and put in Sleeping Beauty so you can feel the innocent happiness of childhood again.

Maybe that's why, on Christmas Eve, when your daddy's home (you just don't call him daddy anymore--you're too old for that) and the tree's lit and all the other lights are off, you like to linger in the living room a little longer than you have to, listening for reindeer hooves that you know won't come.

Sometimes, you know, you just have to act a little childish. You've grown to understand that that's the only way you can survive in this world, by clinging to the things you can't keep.

It's why you write, it's why you want to become a novelist when your entire family is bemoaning the way you're forgetting your amazing abilities in Chemistry. Chemistry is fine, but it's cold and unfeeling. The written word, at least to you, is everchanging, alive, warm and loving. You love the way you feel every time you put another word on paper, because it makes you think that anything is possible. It makes you forget all your troubles (even if you're writing about them) and see the world in more vivid, brighter shades than the moment before.

A psychiatrist once told you that you had Peter Pan complex; you wanted to stay a child forever and expected that good things would happen to you. You do.

You know it, but you can't see the problem.

After all, First star on the right, all the way 'til morning, right? That's the way to Never Never Land.