there’s a wonderland, where the soft moss grows, pebbles and running streams. where a quiet eight year old can rest beside. dream of faeries and goddesses. trees as tall as skyscrapers, arms stretching out to the crystal blue skies, trying to touch heaven. there are soft whispers telling her that she is special. and she doesn’t mind getting the edges of her skirt damp and the mud coating her calves don’t bother her. she just closes her eyes. the sunshine against her lids.
there’s this strange passionate longing to still be there. to build a treehouse and fill it with wooden clockwork toys. to have a musical box that tinkles up the music scale and back again. to travel to distant countries and reclaim one’s sense of wonder. to be a child again. to explore and to look at life and the world through new eyes.
she used to make maps. draw castles and roads to strongholds and rivers and mountains and secret caves. she used to make believe. play games with mythical creatures and search for hidden artifacts upon dangerous quests. she was not the princess. she was the warrior. she wielded the sword and the magic. and at the end of the day, she conquered the world.
there’s a wonderland, where she closes her eyes and it is dark at first. there are people conversing about the banal, about the menial, about the domestic. jobs, traffic, current affairs. but she is not there with them. not anymore. she looks through them, through their vacant expressions. she sees, instead, her wonderland. she imagines a world filled with interesting personalities, a shy dwarf, a rogue, and a possibility. a possibility that she may someday be transported, through mystical cloud, dragon or pegasus, to that quiet eight year old resting beside the stream.