one day, far away...

The reason I write is the reason I read as a small child, and as a short adult. So many truths were hidden by white noise, fashions and castles. With every breath of hope, promises were broken. Token friendships in the playground and neighbourhood felt as rich as the smiles, but then fell out. Nobody had any answers. Not that would tell,
But at night, nobody  spoke, pages under torchlight opened new places and spaces and opportunities. I had the choice to turn the page or close the book, but it all seemed like such a beautiful adventure. Even the sad moments displayed some key to walking through the next day. There was always the chance of repair. Simple typed words all in that hideous Times New Roman, filled stitched paper with anything I wanted. I could paint the faces, paint the walls, plant the garden and nobody would stop me. Books didn't tell me I was lying or dreaming or too quiet or chatty, they followed my call.
And then there were the moments of relief. Paths of tears resolved unrealistically, rarely sensibly, just to offer my mind the chance that life was worth the friendship.