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Her Metaphoric Fairytale

September 8, 2016

 

 

Maybe if she had been prettier, smarter or better armed with life's wisdom, perhaps she wouldn't have allowed him to cast that dark pall over her dreams of love- a darkness in which she stumbled down into a valley of thorns- thorns that pierced her heart of desire. How could she have gotten caught up in the snags of wild promises of romance and devotion?

 

The only excuse she could offer seemed weak and feeble. She didn't know; she was too young and inexperienced with life to know; How could she have known?

The only remedy she knew for her dangerous ignorance was to learn to know- when she got well, and that would take time.

 

And so she began the sleep of healing.

 

She twirled together her innocent childish dreams, sprinkled with the sugar of hope. Within this froth she found comfort and pleasure of a sort that fulfills promises without demanding payment. It was this safety that saved her- the kind of safety that came from deep within herself, that only she had control over- the kind of safety that's far away from the seemingly unsolvable troubles of pain and sorrow- that protects and makes you whole.

 

 

The hardest dashed hopes produce the bitterest anger; The hardest anger to rid ourselves of is anger at our own selves.

 

 

Standing outside of herself, watching and listening, she discarded the rags of her true existence, and donned instead, the diaphanous accoutrements of the fairytale Cinderella princess.

 

 

Her tears of anguish became smiles and laughter- the dark ashes of her incinerated love became the candlelight glowing in the palace ballroom windows high above her head, as she danced merrily away from the ogre of anger that threatened to devour her.

Friends of her own choosing peopled the dream where she found succor and haven- stoutly resisting any temptation to awaken.

 

But, at the tender goodby kiss of the prince, awaken she did.

 

 

The glittering lights of the palace fell like a shower of stars to the wet grass beneath her naked feet- naked like the rest of her, as the rags of her dress blew away in the winds of the moonlit night.

 

Fleeing quickly, she arrived at the door of her stark and humble home- her donned mask of smiles replaced by a face of amazement. Gone was the dark angry cloud of torment, replaced by the sun of shining faces gathered around her- the little people she loved- radiating love that melted her frozen dream world and healed her wounded heart.

 

She once again donned her T-shirt, tenny's and jeans and together they swept the burnt ashes from the hearth, polished the windows to let in sunlight, plowed the garden for planting- and whistled while they worked.

Did she know that she had left one of her dreamed glass slippers inside the dream? It was the one that fit her left foot- the right one she brought back with her, and hid it away in a chest beneath her bed.

 

Will it stay there ever after?

 

 

 

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