Today I sat in my english class and listened to this very loud group talk about their weekend and how they got drunk and high and arrested. I don’t care, but we were reading such a great story. I just feel really bad for them because they’ll probably never read that story, or think about the world in the way that author was talking about.
I wish for those beautiful, dreamy afternoons that seem to force you outside. Taking slow, sweet, barefoot steps down cobblestone sidewalks, and imagining all the magical things that could be hiding beneath the canopy of rambling trees. I want quiet girls to whisper in hushed tones of fortune-telling pixies, whistling fauns, and rabbits in top hats. I wish the world around me would hum to life with long-forgotten fairy tales and dusty stories our grandparents used to tell us while we were forcing our eyes to stay open.