Happiness~ a state that feels good when it’s shared, be it with family, and/or friends.

That first time we met, ’twas a sunny day. Not only did the weather make me content, but us sharing a smile~ that also made me even smile more broadly.

Then I hoped to see you again. When we did, our friendship grew. And we chatted for the first time and for so long. Even took a long walk, as the sun was getting ready to set. It’s such moments which will stay with me- Happy memories!

No matter where I go, I hope that whenever I get a chance to be where you are..then we can meet, again. Our meetings always bring a smile on my face. My dear friend, whom I like to think of as family.

My wish and hope is to forever keep on making even more beautiful memories together. We share the same adoration for music, and food, too. Here’s to many more happy years of friendship with you.

Happiness~ whenever I get to spend hours talking, &/or taking a walk with you.

#BONHEUR.

Magic is real.

It’s coming out of the tip of a pen, bleeding onto paper.

Out of the tips of fingers when you punch the typewriter.

Magic is real, staining white with black, covering a page with words and ink and sounds.

Magic is real, worlds that flow like a river, the places that make you smile and laugh and cry.

Magic is the miracles that bounce around the heads of writers, until they can think of nothing else but getting their hands onto a pencil.

Magic has to be let out.

Filling pages of unheard voices, cries from far away.

Things that are better to be read than said out loud.

Magic is real.

It’s coming out of the tip of a pen, bleeding onto paper.

I run down and make sure that everything was still in place. This house was origionaly made to look like a normal home from the outside but to house a safe house for soilders who served in some war before I was born. But when Curin’s family baught it they turnded it into their dream home. When me and Curin were little we would alway go down and play a game were we would have to survive the war. Today was a real war. For my life and so many others around me.

My sister stares at me from outside glass casket, ostentatious tears splashing noisily down her face. “I miss you, meerkat,“she whispers, then throws herself onto my casket, smudging the crystal clear glass seperating me from the earthly world. “How can I live without you?” She wails.

I cringe inside my mind, even though I know my pale face doesn’t flinch. Why is she embarassing me like this? I lived quietly, somberly, a grey, still figure hunching in the background of a colorful painting. Even my death was quiet, a gentle slipping from the earth, gradually disentegrating until I slept. And then I wake up to this? Does no one pay my wishes any heed?

My mother unpeels my screeching sister of my coffin, then presses her fingertips lightly to the glass, a silent goodbye. Our eyes lock, and she gives me a tiny nod, a yes and an alright.

My father’s face does not appear. I imagine is sitting in the front row, checking his silver watch, counting the minutes until he can leave.

Faces float above me, some that I know and others I wish I learned the names of, all kissing their pinkies and pressing them to the glass. Goodbye, it is supposed to mean, see you later.

I want to call out to them. Don’t you understand! We will not shake hands with each other again: for I am alive, but you do not see.

Then I am alone, as hushed footsteps pad to their seats and solemn hyms ricochet in my ears. Someone speaks. About how death is not “farewell forever” but “farewell for a bit.” I want to scream.

There is quiet, meaningless chatter. Endless condolences. There is another soft herd of feet tumbling out the door, and then only my mother, father, and sister’s figures loom outside of my coffin. My father unfolds a heavy black blanket.

I scream

I screech

I wail

I cry

I beg

and he drapes it around me,

engulfing my world in an endless black I cannot conquer.

I ask Alice,

"What is it like to go down the rabbit hole?"

"Is it a funnel?

Spiraling, dizzily all the way down?"

"Or a slide,

Gliding, swaying,

Gracefully to the ground?"

"Is it a teleporter?

Transporting me, rapidly."

"Or a tumble,

Breaking my skull, with a wretched cracking sound?"

“Alice, I’m going down now."

"Tell me what's it like?"

She says,

"It’s nothing.

"It’s as easy as riding a bike."