BeyondTheAstral

"What's your world like? Are all the children happy there?"

I broke... hearing that question.

This story is a wound wearing a smile. A lullaby wrought from a requiem. A beautiful illusion where fairies dance, and rainbows bury the jagged remains of reality. It's a world where fantasy becomes real, and everyone loves such worlds, although no one ever asks what it cost the creator to imagine them into existence.

It's excruciating to watch dusk paint itself as dawn... to see light where only shadows belong.

Like any breathing soul, those little ones just wanted a happy ending. A world safer than the nightmares waiting behind their eyelids. Their chants are simple rules:
Don't ask if it's realistic.
Don't ask how breaking it is.
Just feel it. Please--just feel it.

For some children, imagination isn't a luxury; it's survival. A lifeline. For them, the kindest grown-up becomes a miracle to cling to. Because not all angels have wings. Some had theirs ripped to shreds. They still look up quietly, hoping someone will say, "You can fly too."

But deep down, they want truth, not just comfort.
And it's tragic: to long for sweet words while knowing your own truth is just another lie, deliberately curated.

What could ever be salvation to a mind like that? Not just kindness. Sometimes, kindness is the shove that finally sends them off the edge... wings or none.

Then, this line: "The snow keeps falling... on my desperate hope."
Again.I paused and breathed deeply.

Hope. Such a soft word for those who are drowning. For the broken, hope becomes creation, because reality... is already cold.

And these children... if the beginning of your life is written in scars, why would you ever want to grow up? Why become what once dented your memory?

They didn't want to.
They never did.