Ode To The Mean Reds / Ginny Victorious

Dear Mean Reds,
I hate your stinking guts. Last night you had a hold on me; today I am rid of you. You are potent; a tiny dose of you works wondrous feats of havoc on a heart. I am over you. Consider this the end of our relationship. Yes, I am breaking it off with you. My new affair involves Someone full of life and grace and deep true love; Someone ever so much more moving than you. You will find Him a formidable opponent. Indeed, I have great hope that when next you peak your ugly head around my corner, I will hide behind Him and He will banish you. Farewell, my old companion. Best wishes and may you find yourself obliterated from the face of this earth, never to torture another soul.
Most Sincerely,
AvaGinevera

May it be. And soon.

John Darling was probably not a lucky one in the sense that when he closed his eyes tight and the pool of pale colors he saw there took shape he probably did not see the Neverland. He did however surpass the good fortune of even the lucky ones - he really went. He walked the shores and slept in the little home underground. He played the mermaids' bubble game and there he became my idol. John introduced a new way of hitting bubbles that the mermaids adopted for themselves. "This is the one mark that John has left on the Neverland." Though I find him in no way and exceptional character (neither clever nor outstandingly brave nor endearingly pathetic), the Neverland remembers him. He was there and he left something of himself behind.

Dear friend, please do not misunderstand me. I know that I matter; I know that my life has meaning and purpose and no matter what I do with it, great or small, my soul and my existence is significant simply because I am. But.

But. I want to leave a mark on this land. I cannot go to the Neverland; Peter did not come for me nor will he. But I am here and I want this place, this world, this life to remember me. Someday I will not be here and I am mostly at peace with the inevitable "Ashes to ashes, dust to dust" concept. But even though John is no longer in the Neverland and it is safe to guess that none there remember his name, the mermaids almost certainly still bounce their bubbles on their heads when they play their game. In that same way, I have a driving need to leave something, some mark, some fingerprint, some remnant of myself, of what I did while I was here.

I need a cause. I need a task. I need something fill endless notebooks with and stay awake for days until I collapse working on. There are worlds of unturned rocks, undiscovered magic, unspoken epiphanies for me. Where they are, what they are... I just know they are. I have to find it; my mark. What ever it may be.

She makes me uncomfortable.

There is no smile in Judy Garland's eyes. Ever. She twirls and sings and her mouth makes the loveliest smile. But never ever does it touch her eyes. They are cold. Did you ever hear of anything so strange as cold brown eyes? She is a legend, an icon. Everything she does is perfect. But there is no joy in it. The whole world at her feet, but no joy. How dreadful!

The Unalienable Dangers of Nostalgia

Childhood is treasure beyond words. I have not left it, nor will I ever. There was a time, however, when I was a little child; no other distinction will I make between then and now. Being a little child was, indeed, preferable to being the child I am now in many ways. There is only one thing that, given the chance, I would go back and reclaim. My joy. When I was much smaller than I am now, I was in possession of joy unfathomable. My smile was light and glory and no one saw it without being overtaken by the infection of it. I was a laugher and a dancer. I was unconsciously happy; I smiled without knowing what I was doing. Years passed and slowly, very slowly, my joy faded. There was panic the first time I realized it was missing; I got it back. There was a little less panic the second time, for the feeling of being without it was familiar; I got it back again. Again, it faded. The most treacherous of the Unalienable Dangers of Nostalgia is its habit of flinging the foolishly nostalgic person into a depression, deep and inescapable. But one of the lesser Dangers is the one that has I have naively fallen into today; the determination to set upon a journey back to reclaim what was once and is always rightfully mine.

Dear Friend,

I write to you now because I have secrets. "Secrets?" you respond, "everyone has secrets. What makes yours any different?" I answer you with a slight smile touching only one corner of my mouth, My secrets are different because I have someone who wants to know my every thought and every secret. "You're in love!" you exclaim with the appropriate enthusiasm. Yes, I am in love. Blessedly, hopelessly in love. But though you would imagine (I gather from your confused expression) that my love would be the safest place in the world for my secrets, you are wrong. Though I trust my love entirely I cannot tell him my every thought. You see, love requires you to protect your beloved, and though I have no terrible secret, no skeleton in my closet, his tender heart would be hurt by some of my thoughts, especially the ones that regard him. "Absolute honesty" is a fantasy. The predicament created by love leaves me unable to share my thoughts with my love but my nature renders me incapable of living with them floating around in my head. So I turn to you, dear friend, for release. "Ah," your smile is knowing now and you nod your head in assent. Thank you, you have no idea how important you will be to me in the coming days.