When I was young, I read all the fairytales. The pretty ones. The sparkly ones. The dark. And the doomful.
Most of us did, right?
But I wonder…did they have the same effect on everyone else? (If I were feeling silly, I’d insert that little guy here…the one with his finger and thumb resting on his chin. And a pensive look on his little face. (Ah, go on. He’s one of my favorites)
Stories like Hansel and Gretel and Little Red Riding Hood. Sleeping Beauty. And The Three Little Pigs.
Ohhh yes. I slurped that sinister stuff up like it was flowing from a big huge straw.
And it’s strange. Because I’m a realist in most areas of my life. Yet somehow, I’m gullible in this one regard. Probably because I’m a sucker for a great story.
I want to believe. Buy in. Exist amongst enchanting pages. And nestle safely between their protective covers.
Anyhow, back to my point. And it’s this. As a young girl, I believed in fairy tales.
I believed I could wish upon a star.
Or a golden birthday candle.
Or a wispy dandelion.
And that it would come true. My wish. Whatever it was.
And I want that back. My faith. My belief. My gullibility. My trust in the process.
That if I dare to wish. Take the leap. And drink from the fountain. It’ll pay off. That I won’t just be left holding a tin star. A smouldering wick. A wilting stem.
That I can erect my own fairy tale.
That I can get back what I lost when I was young.
But I need you to believe with me…
So are you ready?
Okay now…
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Blow…
Photo taken at Nendrum Castle Lookout, Co Down, NI
Hazy Shades of Me 