fairytales

How is it that the many men and women penned the many tall tales and sweet stories to be read by ours with the tiniest hands and the largest eyes with out any of the heavy remnants of guilt? How did they allow their words to arrange themselves falsely upon the pages? Lies from beyond once upon a time and grave misrepresentations that resonate long after happily ever after. How do we let our children rest in ignorance of the fragmentation to come, and the destruction that has been? Is it because we envy their innocence? Is it that what we long for most is to have no knowledge of the massive atrocities of man, the faults in our friends, the disappointments we discover in our parents, our abandonment by our Gods? But to this ignorance of evil, clings an inability to bear the weight of the great joys of life. What it feels like to be loved implicitly by another human being, or perhaps, only the luxary of believing this is possible. What it feels like when physical calescence between lovers suddenly becomes visible in the night. What it is to stand alone. What it is to stand with someone. What it is to know that your physical being can create life, and in that act, redeem the reflection God had hoped to see of Himself in man. What it is to surrender. What it is to struggle ceaselessly. What it is to have the choice. What it is to sleep in the arms of your lover, and have your hand meet warms flesh when it reaches out, imploring the night. What it is to be able to map another’s bare skin. What it is to know that the love of God is conditional, and to choose whether or not to live by those conditions. What it is to have all the words you need to say what you want. What it is to know that you’ll never have all the words to say what you need.