honesty hurts, sometimes.

Rays shriek through windowpanes, like canopies in my beguiled oculuses one misty morning. A crisp cheekiness anticipating a new day as I dwell onto the callousness of my breathing. I stood up watching leaves fall on their recuperating trees like witnessing the climax of an autumn tree emancipating its tiddler. Freedom – finally. Blue skies dance in some euphoric tune, annihilating the downpour of torrent bought upon the world yesterday. Birds move rapidly steaming out in little apertures of loud twittering channeling, welcoming the new day. Another splendiferous morning.

Yet, why am I desperately nostalgic? Sulked up, fraught with extreme unhappiness, almost nearly hopeless. Why do I sit all day waiting for rainy nights to come? Lurking in the darkness that conceals the room, looking out on raindrops thinking as if it were my tears.

I had it in me, the girl who once believed in fairy tales, thinking it like a rippled branch and smelled of spring flowers. The princes that’ll sweep me off my feet, the fairies that’ll subsidize my dispositions, and the girl who waited incessantly for butterflies believing it were some magical fantasy that cascades stardust and glittering golden powder. My ceaseless dream – imagination unrestricted by reality.

Then the worse came, I grew up. Awaken by the voices of unpleasantly stern reality. Truth hurts. The adroit thoughts of fairy godmothers vouching magic wands in your purportedly gleaming white ball dress, the effervescent notion of fortune cabbaging with tooth fairies, the easiness of their impalpable benignity that makes my heart beat as loud as my breath was quiet.

The battering and beating now was lost – no more heart. All I have now is this thing inside my chest that pumps blood. Now tell me, if living is a process, then how does one arrive anywhere except by just such painful routes?

Perverted furious politicians in white barongs now supersede princes. Tickling crocodiles are replaced with perpetual endangering of whales. And coiled unborn fetus in lucid mayonnaise jars now supplants Peter Pan.

The harshness of reality stashes away the child in you. There’s no room for fairy tales in life, only actuality.

What you don’t know won’t hurt you. Whoever said these is probably in his state of mental numbness. Lies hurt too, but reality – honesty, hurts even more.