Dear peter pan,
Whenever a small version of me woke up in the middle of the night, scared of demons in her dreams, my mum would be right there, ready with a story book and an aura of comfort only she could provide to fill the void of the dark night.
As I lay on my favorite storyteller’s lap, which would always be more homely than my bed, she would read out the title nice and loud:
“Peter Pan, the boy could not grow up.”
And soon I found myself floating in the adventures of a boy too cocky for his own good, a self-centered, bumptious boy who seeks the extremities of his fantasies.
As days passed, there was a constant clash between the beasts who reveled in keeping me awake in the middle of the night and the sweet voice of my mum who lulled a so very pleasant tale of a not so very pleasant boy.
And I started believing in you, started in the Kensington Gardens, started believing in flying, in the wonders of being audacious, in evil and in just a little bit of tinker.
But, above all, I believed in staying young till the very end of eternity.
‘Children have minds that run at speeds; adults could never pace up to.’ Mum used to smile and tell, with a chest filled with pride, to others, to me, to herself.
‘Everything has a price, honey’ she’d say cautiously at times. ‘For Peter must forget all about his adventures and what he learns about the world to stay childlike.’
But as my feet grew, my hands bittered, my tongue dried up and my height rose, so did the expectations of this world.
I remember sitting on the window and waiting for a perpetual sight, bright eyes shining with a hopeful future, a smirk that won’t go away, a sharp red nose, rosy cheeks, viciously pink lips with a melodious voice that would be so pompous that I’d be inspired to leave this worldy mess within seconds.
But, alas, my only company in those lonesome nights would be the scars of the moon; praised by all for it’s beauty.
Have I failed you or you me?
Was I banished to nowhereland without even existing in your team of lost boys?
Why did you give up on me and my escapade before even understanding me?
Maybe I deserved it because of the ridiculous aspirations I had from a boy who could not love for the sake of this undying youth.
When I stand in front of the mirror, I see a lady, a lady in distress, her eyes bloodshot, she waves a bottle of alcohol so as to hypnotize herself to be happy perhaps, she’s covered up in wounds of the past; cleverly hidden underneath tons of makeup.
What has become of the lively adolescent that once stood in her place, the one who was crazy enough to imagine her life as a tiny bud forever, who was moronic enough to imagine that creations lasted and quiet.
My uncanny truth has indeed damaged the very essence of my childhood.
I’ve lost my belief, my dear pan.
Glittery tears, where’s my fairy dust?
A lost girl you never found.