There was a time when I imagined my life consisting of the simplest love.  The kind of love that didn’t require another person, yet another day, another avenue to pursue.  The cliché of a little girl’s dream of pure romance wasn’t out of reach in my mind.  I had hopes that one day my life would resemble a movie scene.

Shortly after reality sank in to reveal what my soul truly longed for.  It wasn’t that of a soul mate to close out my days, but days spent tucked away in solitude with pen and paper in hand.  When you think of your own fairy tale, what do you see?  Fairy tales are the illusion that can’t be real, yet give out heart something to cling to.  For years I’ve lived vicariously through the pages of novels that steal my attention for days; movie scenes that capture my imagination.  Yet never before have I felt that any fairytale was obtainable.

We create our journey.  We fill the pages of our books with adventure, giving our readers a sense of vitality to who they believe you were.  I have written my pages time and time again.  I have torn the pages to shreds in hopes of finding my next chapter.  One that would depict the image I’ve always longed for.  Then you hear those words, whether they are spoken or internal.  You grasp for any ounce of sanity to regain your footing in the story your heart hopes to create.  Then you understand where you’ve been only to realize where you never thought you’d be.  It’s in the eyes.  The deepest ocean blue.  Specks of ice that sparkle in the sun, glistening brighter than every star in the sky.  When you awaken, you notice that the dream was just that and the rest of your days are just a scramble of time bunched together.  Your pages are unfinished.  Your life is an open book to be read and reread a million times.  Each reader finding their own version of a happy ending.  Each soul longing to be where you are, not understanding why their steps never reached yours.  Always remaining in the shadow of where you were yesterday.  Then consistent darkness looks over you like fog.  Trees line the borders of your story, casting away the light.  There can be no happy ending.  You cannot sail on an ocean in which you do not belong.

Every chapter closes.  Every book is bonded to its author.  My story remains unreadable.  The heart is locked away to resist any chance of turmoil.  I put the pen to my temple, hoping for inspiration.  Allowing the scent of dried ink spill into my lungs, I conclude that I no longer need to fill a void.  Pages remain unwritten, words left unsaid and time stood still.

Tomorrow is a new horizon.