the storyteller: a fairytale

 

A long time ago, in between the five corners of the world, there lay a great forest. On the edge of this forest lived a man with no name. Now, in those days it was generally accepted and good to have a name, but this man was neither generally accepted nor very good. And so people called him the Storyteller (for they had to call him something) but that was not strictly true. You see, this man had dreams, and what he dreamt became reality. Many sorts of people sought him out for his services, but all he wanted was solitude. So he dreamt, and was alone, and was content.

One morning, the Storyteller awoke to a small boy making angels in the snow. He was (naturally) very displeased at this, and told him so. 

“I did not come to beg, sir,” said the child, and the Storyteller saw that his eyes were full of pain. “My mother is sick. Please, won’t you help her?”

“I help no one.” And the Storyteller slammed his cottage door behind him. 

But the boy was not so easily cowed. He came back day after day and the Storyteller (naturally) found it rather irksome. “I will dream for your mother,” he said, as the child stared at his week-old snow angels. “But you must go away, and never come back.”

The boy left. The Storyteller dreamed that night for the boy’s mother, whoever she was. The next morning there was a fresh snowfall, and the man watched the snow angels disappear. And because he was good at lying, he told himself that he was glad to be alone, and he was glad the boy was gone. And because he was good at lying, he almost believed it.

The Storyteller turned around, went inside, and closed the door. 

main character

we assume we’re the main characters of our own stories.

we are, after all, the centre of everything we experience. and everyone has a story.

we don’t know it any other way.

but then something happens that makes us wonder

if we’re like nick carraway,

the sidekick in someone else’s fairytale.

what are we, really?

thoughts on endings

 “i'll come back when you call me / no need to say goodbye."

    this year i'm a senior. it's difficult, saying goodbye to the things i've known for four years, but i'm also excited for what comes next. i don't want to say goodbye, though. i don't want to leave these people, these places behind. 

    i've still got time. i'm just not ready.

colours

 her favourite colours change with the seasons.

in spring it’s green, brilliant grass green, like the leaves on roses and the moss growing gently on bushy-topped trees. it’s white, like daffodils and fuzzy dandelions, scattering their petals on the wind. it’s purple, soft lilac purple, like the early sunrise and gentle lavender always smiling. it’s pink, like the cherry blossoms waving in the quiet wind.

in summer it’s blue. stunning, piercing blue like the ocean casting itself on the shore, like the sky in the middle of a warm summer day. it’s yellow, like hibiscus flowers and tan like the soft sand lining the beach.

in autumn it’s orange like pumpkin spice, like soft candlelight in the dark and a fire warming the corner of a home. it’s brilliant red, like a forest lined with the leaves falling from bare trees. it’s brown, like the pages of a well-loved book, like nutmeg, like oatmeal that warms your mouth or the tang of coffee or the soft hug of cinnamon tea. 

in winter it’s red. bright, passionate red like the stripes on a candy cane or a red rose lying against the snow. it’s white, like snowflakes falling, like the lights on a christmas tree, like marshmallows sitting in a piping hot mug of cocoa. it’s cream, like a well-worn sweater or a fuzzy scarf that keeps away the cold. it’s army green, like a christmas tree that’s just been cut, like the smell of pine wafting through the air.

happy hobbit day!

    happy birthday, bilbo and frodo :)

don’t you want some of that cake? because I want some of that cake. desperately.

a gold-tinged dream

 

a character sketch

white, pink, and brown // the quiet breeze of morning // lace hemming a white gown // playing the pianoforte // reading poetry // a quiet proposal // slow smiles // running barefoot through the field // i love you, most ardently

the child i used to be

sometimes i miss 

the child i used to be. 

yes, i was alone

and yes, i was naïve, 

but i didn’t care.

i didn’t care

what others thought, 

what they thought of me 

or who i was. 

i just was.

i was innocent.

trusting.

pure in heart.

i miss her, that little girl

who saw the world

so clearly

but herself

saw not at all.