I used to be happy, I think, and then it happened.
And things were no longer happy, and the frame had turned the wrong-way down, the window shattered and glued back messily in enterprising shards. The paste dripped in my eyes, and I was deeply unsatisfied, wiping unsuccessfully.
There is a yearning now. For fantasy, and water-washed cobble stone streets, and little cottages with fields of endless flowers and the sunlight streaming down on all three. For mirror lakes, and mountain tops breathing blue, and then the sky—the sky. There is a yearning for wizards in flamboyant attire; fire, stars, dancing, and fairies, magic. All of it I want. None of it exists. I sigh to myself, and the yearning flares larger than life in this white-washed room (it's still dark).
I sit, consumed in thought and idle wishing. The real world is a pale imitation, I think to myself. I cannot find what I want here, and soon I must move on, and the shadows will be my friend, because we can never coexist. It is futile; I've tried too many times to knit us together in my dreams as I napped on the couch. It never worked, and I always woke up with the pillow askew and a terrible crick in my neck, to boot.
I tell myself to stop trying, to forget, but the watercolor rears vividly in my mind, and I can't. It's useless to try, because either way, you find your way in. (knocking is superfluous, now)
The blotting pen sits darkening in my hand as I write this letter to you, in strained cursive. The letters are cramped and weary, and my hand throbs with forced sincerity. You never knew me, did you? Did I?
I guess not, and I set the pen aside for a better author. The note ends up crumpled and in the drowning pile of fakes and roughs.
It's okay, I tell myself. You were never real anyways.
Faint musings, and discontinued fantasies.