If a 29 year old woman believes in fairy tales, does that make her whimsical or a fool? I used to cling to the idea of beauty, of life making some beautiful, prismatic sense. But like others who use alcohol, or cigarettes, or working themselves into an early grave, I hid in fairy land. Pretending at a world that did not hurt. That meant something extraordinary. Some "vie moins ordinaire". I felt things and saw things there - a Gleam that believe it or not I thought existed. Believed that the wind spoke to me and that I could see things that others couldn't. The sorts of things that could get me admitted to a psychiatric facility really, when I read back on some of them.
I don't have many readers any more, probably scared off by the utter nonsense. I wonder at how many rolled their eyes at the innocent naivete which just isn't cute in an overweight limp haired 29 year old, but instead satisfies some lurid internet cliche.
I have rebelled at the idea of growing up, but clearly at some point, I have to. It may as well be now. I'm not sure I believe in dreams. There is no Gleam.