Le Petit Prince.What I miss most about my childhood days is the ability to create my own reality. Yes, I can still create realms, worlds with my writing. Yes, I can imprison emotions, characters & weave a story that then, becomes reality to a certain extent. But what I mean, in this case, is that I miss BELIEVING that Peter Pan will fly into my room (I used to leave the window wide open for him, then burst into tears in the morning when he didn't show), that if I play with my belly button, I will die (my grandma used to scare me with that one, go figure why), that vinegar will turn my blood into water...
When I played, I became the princess, the villain or the mythical creature. It wasn't 'pretend', it was life....
*If I act like I'm in love, will the love follow? Will the blood pulsate through me, like a tide over the sand, Will a spark light up in my eyes, like an on/off switch, Will my lips part in breathlessness, will air languorously leave my lungs when I see a lover..
*If I act like the world belongs to me, will hordes of people follow my footprints, as if I was a Messiah, or at least, marvel at my throne & admire the woman that wears the crown? Will rubies, gold & emeralds lace around my wrists, imprison my limbs & choke my appreciation for 'less is more'?
*If I act like today is the perfect day, Will the clouds free the sky, let the sun shine its glory? Will a soft but scented (tulips & hydrangeas) breeze sweep through the country, the day become a statutory holiday, so i can linger at home in my sweats & bare feet, yet still get a full day's pay?
No. Reality, the ugly, will tug, & poke, & snatch me back in its grasp, in no time.