In the Ideal Fantasy World

Five years old

Only five years old

She was quiet girl, fighting dragons and the monsters underneath her bed

Such a strange little sprite

Unable to control her own two wandering wings

Living invisible to all outsiders in the gilded castle that was her room

Slowing building her voice

Sacrificing the rule and fading magic of her mind’s realm

To be the lively crackle of laughter to those who were willing to listen

Sixteen years old

She was no longer a myth, but a breathing creature of dust

The disgusting gray pencil debris snaking its way up the side of her right palm

Every evening a new paper demon to slay

Every morning a grown woman in a sleek, charcoal business suit

Slowing building her voice

Battling the horde for her rightful place in this world that was not her own

But would she emerge victorious from this war?

I don’t know

I can only believe

Eighty years old

Happy to be waking up with the pain of old age sewn deep in her bones

Missing the noisier days of her past

When the youth did not crinkle the smooth, unworn skin on their noses at her

Whether she is content looking back at her life?

I don’t know

She is the hopes, dreams, and ambitions I see projected on the back of my eyelids as I sleep

She is all that I will ever be able to be

Some days, she is everything

Other days, when my imagination is not so gracious

I am nothing

I can only believe