Life itself is the most wonderful fairytale.

This motto ran in the family and still does to this day. Legacy enclosed in a parcel, passed down from generation to generation. Opening it and being left in awe at its glowing truth.

One day, it was my turn to open the parcel. And when I saw it in all its splendour, I was indeed awed, just as those before me.

Ever since then, I yearned to write fairy tales. Sometimes, they came from searches for beauty in the ordinary. Sometimes, they came from movies playing in my mind.
I wrote them all on paper; the ink flowed from my pen, spilling daydreams and brainstorms into my notebook.

But what about my own fairytale?

You see, I was so accustomed to creating other’s fairytales, I almost forgot about mine.

I suppose it would be of adventure and derring-do; I’d travel the globe, sail the seven seas, constantly seeking sources of inspiration. Boat or plane, car or train, the world would be my oyster.

But what about my pearl?

Well, I would certainly never forget it! Because even if it’s a concrete forest, it’s still ingrained in my identity.
But even though it’s safe and secure, it’s small and keeps me enclosed, like a swallow in a cage.
That’s why I adore exploring life outside the cage; to find new magic, which allows me to continue writing my fairytale.

And I would live happily ever after by settling down with a kind, loving partner; husband, wife, spouse...someone who I can share a happy home with. All the better if I were a mother, for I would pass the parcel onto them.

Now reality is ensuing. Turmoil and trouble are taking their tolls on the world. Beautiful places become blood-stained battlefields.
Lives are lost; no one lives happily ever after.
And there are those who want to escape, but cannot; it is due to this that people are losing their belief in fairytales.
In short, the magic is dying.

I know this is so; as there is so much beauty to be found, I do know very well that the world is not perfect.

But it doesn’t have to be this way, all this doom and gloom. My creativity is a wild beast that cannot be tamed, and with it I will weave my stories the way a weaver does a tapestry:
Intriguing concepts, colourful settings, meaningful messages, relatable characters, all with the power to make my audience challenge their thinking and empathise with my characters.  

Characters such as:  
An outcast duckling, shunned by the world merely because of his looks, but is really a beautiful bird.  
A little maiden, no bigger than a thumb, venturing a world of marriage-minded moles and toads.
A vain emperor, who parades in a fine suit made of invisible cloth, but is really wearing nothing at all!
A so-called princess, who sleeps on a large bed of 20 mattresses under a miniscule pea, to test her sensitivity.
An icy queen, so enigmatic and cold-hearted that she could just as well be winter herself.
A yearning mermaid, who trades her voice and tail for legs to meet the man she loves, but alas - is not meant to be.

All perfect escapes from the boredom and terror of reality.

And I hope, when I am dead and gone, my stories will be so universally known that they will transcend cultural barriers, written and told in all the world’s tongues for all to read and hear.

For I want to be remembered as one who used words and stories to heal and help, in a time of hurt and harm.

Life itself is the most wonderful fairytale, and we all have a part in writing it. How it ends is up to us.

Expectation: The United States,
The bold, confident, popular United States.
Seductive tempter; handsome, like Adonis.
Luring the hearts of gullible others with his charisma, like moths to a flame.
Leaving his footprints everywhere he goes with his influence; like it or not, it’s here to stay.
A smooth-talking siren with a honey-sweet voice, he will leave you craving for some sweet Americana.
Even when you know too much of that is poor for your health, your desire for it is unending; you return for more.
You can be free in his home. There is peace in his home. There is equality, democracy, and all is perfect.

Right?

That’s what you’ve been led to believe.

Look again…

Reality: The United States,
The narrow-minded, ravenous, individualistic United States.
Full of vices,
And the rifle is his master.
Click-click, bang! One shot is all it takes, and then you’re gone.

Drinking from and swimming in his jacuzzi of soft drinks,
Sleeping in his lucky green bed, in the lap of luxury.
While the rest of the world heeds his back and call,
Others are trampled under his feet, begging for help.
Blissfully unaware.

The vices lie in the barrel like vipers in a pit, ready to strike:
One taunts those whose skins are not white: be they yellow as sand, as brown as wood, or as black as licorice.
One sneers at the queer, calling them freaks of nature.
One wraps itself around America’s sister, playing with her as if she were a doll.
They all whisper words that are as painful as bullets shot through the heart, and scarring as the aftermath of boiling water against the skin.
Scratching away at Mother Earth for the precious mineral,
Draining the ground for that sticky, succulent substance like a mosquito to blood;
Both as black as the night.
Waste not, want not: not in his dictionary; unsustainable use results in insatiable hunger.

Then, illusion of utopia suddenly shattered — that is the real United States.

And I, a simple girl in red, adore him, yet I am caught between the snares of admiration and disappointment.
However, I cannot hate him completely for his children have benefited the world; some of them have become my best friends.
But when I, a simple girl in red, ask for his assistance in assisting others, he turns his back on me.
And when I, a simple girl in red, offer solutions on how to better himself, he turns them down.

“Be cautious,” my friends warn me. “Keep your guard.” “Watch yourself in his presence.” I hear it all the time.
Don’t worry, I may have been swayed by him many times before, but I know better than to let myself succumb to his spell;
I’m aware of what goes on behind that mask of stars and stripes.
Yet when he treats me like a queen and says he admires me, I do not know what to believe.
Does he genuinely mean it? Or is he flattering me — another one of his shallow siren songs?

That’s why, if I were to move up North, I would rather reside in the Canadian house.
For he, they say, is a less violent and more welcoming host.
But I would look out the window every day with a sense of pity, as I observe the struggles of America’s children in their home’s current state.
And even if he does think of me, all I can do is send my sympathies to the United States.