Dear Seller of Fates,
You read the cards of my life and sold me fate. Of course, magic and unrealism were your more popular wares but your primary product was fate.
And dreams. You peddled dreams packaged in hopes and expectations that grew in direct proportion to my clashes with reality.
In a world full of cracks, you peddled the light that crept in through the cracks.
You found a buyer in me because you knew who I was.
I was a settler, settling for scraps, for anything that even remotely resembled the dream you sold me.
Thinking that maybe this was what I had been striving for so long.
Maybe the settling, the compromises and the losses would build up to this. This explosion of happiness. This ending of a long wait because the fruits of long unending waits were supposed to be sweet.
But you, dream peddler, you didn’t tell me that long waits may end in bitterness too.
That the fruits may turn sour, the people may forget.
Sometimes, I wish you had sold me some fairy dust of forgetfulness.
Then I would have let my pride crumble, succumbed to liars and settled for less than what I deserved because I would have forgotten that you had sold me a larger-than-life fantasy.