That day when she rose, she felt different. As the world erupted around her in exotic shades, she held on to her core. Her delicate fingers clasped at her silken robe. She looked fragile and broken. Yet, her eyes had a story to tell today. They looked different. Solitary yet bright. People looked at her with awe. She at once seemed far away. Far away from the maddening crowd. They wanted to scream at her and break the spell but all they could do was stare. She looked around and gathered her belongings that lay strewn around her. She picked up her hope that was hidden under expectations, she picked up her smile that was smothered under judging fingers and then she blew the dust away from the red diary, that read, “my dreams”. She packed up everything, leaving behind her inhibitions and fear of falling over again. As she walked over to the door, she stopped by the mirror, a ten year old girl smiled back. Her eyes shone brightly, her teeth perfectly white. She watched mesmerised as the little girl danced. “Don’t let go of her again” someone familiar whispered. “I won’t. I won’t, papa”. She picked up her forty years of existence and walked away hoping to build a life that only had dreams and ambitions and a carefree self, her ten year old self, who didn’t really care about impossibility of dreams.
