works of fiction

in some blithe fictional work i might start and finish, there's a cafe down the street that serves tea with milk and honey. they always have fresh flowers and paintings on the wall (which are, in turn, painted pink).
i also knew a young man, who, every weekend and public holiday, would go to visit his sick mother who suffered from alzeimer's. although she did not recognize him nor remember his face, he brought her flowers each time, and after each visit graciously kissed her hand and said til next time mom.

there is a forest down the road from my house. when i was little i believed the fairies lived there, and at night would come to whisper secrets into my ear while i slept. the trees in that forest are so tall they reach up into the heavens, silent, ancient and incomprehensible. a child would believe in the elven kingdoms of literature, crystal pools of water that become the wintry voices of myth, resounding through the wood. these were the fabled songs of the tall and hooded peoples of the wood. i used to believe this.

there are many things i used to believe that have become marred by the death of make-believe. pretending cannot redefine my world because i know too much. childish whims and pleasures are no longer such diversions.

places i'd like to go to:

Tel Aviv, Israel
Havana, Cuba
Great Britain
Barcelona
Ireland
New York City
Mozambique
Thailand
Milan
The French Riviera
Cannes
Paris
Casablanca, Morocco
Sicily
Santorini
New Mexico
Mexico
Los Angeles, California