Once upon a time there was a hidden truth nobody knew anything about.
Not even the storyteller,
because she didn’t understand the story and read it out all wrong.
Our tale was spread out over five years of heartbreak and the colour black.
It appeared there was a lightning struck at the clock of ten at night on a dewy September day.
What it did not tell our storyteller was that the colour black was fading darker.
It just blinded her eyes.
The storm was awfully bright and she could not help but see flares of light no matter how dark the core of the vision actually is.
It made her believe she was dancing,
and how she could never stop because her feet were locked in happiness.
So, she choreographed a routine she thought was only danced by her and him.
Then a fault along the way appeared,
that she thought she could forget about.
Our storyteller was told she was insane,
but loved fiercely,
by no one but him.
Our prince, you might say.
At least that’s what she saw him to be.
But the dancing decreased a little over time.
Her feet grew tired and it became a poppet play.
She believed her prince was truly a real boy standing in front of her.
Our storyteller did not notice the strings that grew from her arms and legs.
They were held by his hands,
whom she thought to be our prince.
Our storyteller was a girl who loved very deeply,
and her loyalty remained,
even after our faux prince subconsciously forgot about her fragile heart and tore it open a little too many times.
She decided to forget the awful sights,
and was determined to see the innocent sensitive boy with the golden locks they told her he was.
She remained to believe the blurred out flares were a true source of light,
that would keep her feet dancing even though she felt so low to the ground.
She felt his hands on her body holding her up,
and ignored the imaginary prince being the one who made her dancing so shallow and narrow.
But on a late December day,
our storyteller was blinded by black.
Suddenly the flares had gone,
and left her lost.
She decided to dance harder and faster,
working to create brightness that read her tale.
Through the exhaustion she carried on,
while the strings on her arms were pulling tighter.
On a godforsaken day,
the poppet play made a sudden stop.
A cross of slender wood fell on top of our storytellers head.
She did not understand what had happened.
Then she felt her hands,
why did they feel so differently?
Why did her feet sense the ground?
Slowly she noticed the strings that had released her limbs.
She never felt them directing her until she saw them lying beside her.
The prince had gone and dropped her to the floor.
Soon she looked around her.
Everything appeared so differently!
She realised,
The fairy tale she told and repeated in her head,
were only lies the once so dreamy prince had preached.
Then,
Our storyteller entered another world.
She had not gone to this place yet she believed.
Maybe she visited it at quite clear times on a gloomy day or two.
Now she decided it was her place to stay.
When she looks around this place,
she saw clouds and trees and flower fields.
She thanks her light and sometimes dark brown eyes for clearing her vision.
Now, the weather shifts.
She feels proud to hop through dirty mud,
and sing atop of moss covered hills.
However,
our storyteller still believes in fairy tales.
She just became more critically selective finding a true handsome prince.
Until then,
she is fine,
breathing on her own.
And trusting her sometimes hurting lungs,
for bringing her velvet breaths.
Through dancing truly and freely,
on warm sand next to golden creeks.
And to this story,
she long ago told,
The end.
