Fairytale-Shamarytale...if only I could let it go at that!

Sometimes I wish life was a fairytale; that endings were happy, love reciprocated, beauty authentic and dreams went straight to gold. I know it may sound ungrateful, but at times, I wish it just the same.

I will close my eyes and make up stories in my head; the hero will always save the day, and as ridiculous as it may be, my knight and shining armor never fails to whisk me away.

Maybe in real life fairytales look a little different. Maybe in real life a fairytale is having both a mom and a dad who love you, a roof over your head and siblings who make everyone proud, not to mention “you” being the stellar scholar or athlete that never ceases to shine. Though in my opinion, this sounds like a very dull fairytale, despite what goodness it may appear to entail…

I’ve been reading Paradise Lost, thumbing through the dense poetry leaves my mind a whirl, but the concept sticks none the less. The world is fallen, whether we want it to be or not, and God will make something of this fallen place—I have confidence.

Sometimes though, as selfish as it sounds, I wish that people would say how they really felt, and I wish that the truth wouldn’t hurt as badly as it has in the past. I wish people would fight a little more for what they wanted and talk about it a little less. And I wish, that once in awhile, people would chase after you admitting they were wrong—I’d like it if someone surprised me.

Will I ever be Cinderella, Sleeping Beauty or Belle? I’m guessing no. But sometimes I sure wish…

I suspect I read books because when I’m in that book, I’m somewhere else, when I’m in that book I can feel the characters and be the characters, and for a few select hours I can be divinely beautiful or astonishingly clever, in the turn of a page my ideas can be challenged, and the providence of a seemingly important life is put to the test.

Jane Eyre was a revolutionary for her time, as no women (I have read of) matched her honesty-infested charm, Joe March, a free spirit that loved so hard and so deeply you cannot help but fall in love with her, Jane Bennet was so sweet and so demur, one wants to jump right into the book and force her to show all that she felt, and how can one not fall in love with Cosette? Or feel an odd sense of pain when the Phantom cries about his inability to be loved by another. Literature: so tragic, so beautiful, and so seemingly real. But is it?

I suppose it’s real enough for one to relate, real enough to inspire. But I cannot help but ask, if my life was a book, wouldn’t someone surprise me? It certainly wouldn’t have ended like that.

And though I fear that whoever may be reading this is drowning in the vagueness of all that I share, for something so trivial and public, this is all the thoughts I can express.

Though, I end with this: do not waste your life in fear. Because I think most of us want a little fairytale, and as I do recall, the coward rarely saves the day.