Once precious child, once newly minted life. Fresh ideals and outlook. How bright things seem as you dance among your dreams, precious flowers and buttons, fascination at life.
How delight can change to dismay, as those around you don't seem to understand. How wearing, how draining, as life is sucked away as the dismal clouds of gloom surround to smother your dreams.
Odd, I find that I am an impassionate observer of tinsel and ribbons, laughter and singing, odd that it is so.
Under the surface lingers a memory, a memory of magic, a memory of life. Longing ever present longing to gather jewels again.
I have folded my dreams, and put them in my pocket. I did it on purpose, a young girl trying to grow up and I have. My dolls sit silent in a closet, away from the stares of ignorance at the magic they once held.
Fairies and phantoms, Santa Claus, shivers of fear in the dark. I would trade this cynicism for another chance, I would give away all my grown up idiocy in an instant.
Yet I am always running, trying to catch the train I have missed. I fall to my knees in a prayer, exhausted, I try to conjure my innocent belief. Remember how it once felt to believe.