nce upon a time there was cherubic little fairy, who was not beautiful though just pretty. She had slender body; mellow lips and when she would flutter her wings the world would be a happy place. And then there was a wicked witch, like always, who would curse the little fairy, transformed her into a living statue and placed her on her dressing table as a decoration item.The fairy stood there for decades, unable to move, listening but not speaking, crying blood-tears, enmeshed in the gullibility of life – in faint nuances of living and fading notion of miracles which might happen. Years later someone accidentally hit her and she collapsed on the floor, the fall un-jinxed her but years torment flooded back and she left hope, her pristine heart wrecked and she died of internal bleeding. Dreams swell up in the fizzy drink of life, burst and drain in the gutter.
The fairy was me.
(Ever since I was young I persuaded myself That I was Ariel, I would marry Eric, Rule Under the sea and have Sabastian and Flounder. nothing happened, I didnt have red hair.)