Fairy-Tale

"When is it my turn?"

Such a silly question, silly girl.

The things you dream of are built for fantasies. Crack open the spine and find yourself a barrage of dazzling stories ...trotting horses, magic dust, and fate. Princesses awakening from vile and poisonous apple induced a comas. Characters playing second fiddle, drawing together used fabrics and pass-me-down accessories to make ballroom gowns. Carriages fit for royalty, reduced to garden variety vegetables at the stroke of time's large hand. Genies in bottles. Mermaids making devil deals for human limbs. Fantastical fairy-tales.

"Is it possible that it will never happen unless I will it so?"

Such a silly question, silly girl.

Prayers are mere words, some answered, others ignored. Fate is for the gods. Wishes for birthdays, before burning candles that grow with each calendar. Will is for the strong, its partner patience for the martyrs. To say it will happen when the time believes it so is to channel faith, an immeasurable tool that does not ensure a guarantee or a set of warranty conditions signed and bound in the case of its failure. 

"Is it then an impossibility?"

Such a silly question, silly girl. 

All things are possibilities. Just as the sky lights, so does it darken. Possibilities do not simply exist in a set of positives, yet why is it that they are always painted as such? Dreamlike colours smeared on a boundless canvas. Making little room for niches of disappointment. Fairy-tales bar those among us from grappling with reality. For as much as we make room for the good, so too should we make storage for those conditions deemed disenchanting. It takes even greater strength to grapple with these realities.

Silly girl, there are no morals to learn in storybook endings. They teach of our vulnerability, the neglectful need to grab our dreams and force them to be so.

So is life. Yes, it is dull at times, it is lightening colouring darkened skies. Continually active, excitingly scorching players out of their dull existences, conditionally fantastical. 

Those "turns" that plague your inquiring mind insist upon a system of waiting, upon a condition of permission. For that, I insist that there is no room. We are women, we need not wait for such a thing. Your youthful mind has much to learn when it comes to demeaning expectations.

Silly girls cling to Cinderella's myth. In her world, turns exist. In this world, the one we inhabit, chance is but an abomination.