Once again, I undergo almost ready, but ridiculous reluctance to turn the gaunt, delicate, and dainty pages of an old well-acquainted, magical, storybook I carefully cuddle closely and protect…The powdery pages are feathered and smooth, but each mystical microscopic characteristic tare, silly smiling child-like scribble, disastrous repetition of experiments (ill-plotted- not intently), and dangerous (but innocent) collection of naive diagrams, or tear-weathered worn inch of the pages just before and present are what I attach importance to and trace over with the tiny tips of my fingers and earnest, knowing eyes.
Many pages were brilliantly brimming, positively over-flowing overwhelmingly…blossoming with superb… dancing, waterfalls of charismatic, natural collection of honest colors the human eye has never seen, touched, or felt… secured safely and hidden away in the strongest of chests and placed in the deepest waters for no one to deter, damage or deny.
The oldest chapters of the lot were filled with fresh images, a forthcoming manner, a gallantly gorgeous glimmer of commonly esteemed excited expressions and shy grins. Melodic singing was a shared aim. Main character-an old muttering mage of all sorts chirping away and spouting silliness with every awkward crooked step… …was following … examining and studying closely…and dragging his outrageous wand. All pages were perfectly pampered and placed serenely and sculpted/ purposefully painted with pain-staked inner surge of careless candor and luminous limitless streams of trust.
The following chapters were furiously fettered with the bruising gusts of badly bellowing winds of warning and shocking storms of tremendous transformation. The mad mage went on and turned his wand in and she began to mindlessly move forward searching and searching and tumbling forward and backward…in every which way possible. She pushed her eager feet forward…Different shades of colors appeared. Others appeared and disappeared like a night’s dream…lovable liars, sarcastic jokers, masked rouges pompously and seductively sauntered into place issuing outlandish promises and extremities of foreign kinds. Glorious gashes of ferocious fights of furry and epic battles raged, yet when the battle cries shook the land and spilled into the blistering and burning air, she turned to see not one held to what was soused.
“Idiots!” she screamed.
Hands coyly trace and solemnly soothe the present and oddly perfumed pages of this strange book. The beautiful binding… so stubbornly stern yet so flexibly fragile… She has been left to her own curious contraptions, eager inventions (still naïve), and harmless child-like diagrams again. I can see the coming of the dawn for her. The story has not ended. Finger curiously curled on the next page…all will be what she wishes for and all will be what it seemed.
