Time is like water cupped in your hands, slowly seeping through each crevice until eventually collapsing.

Childhood dreams are replaced with idealistic futures, until a show or book uncovers them once more.

The pages engulf you, transporting you to a life in a forrest, where you remember each dream you promised yourself.

You feel free, only to emerge from the pages, gasping for air.

That small spark ignited by ink is snuffed out from the suffocating blanket of reality.

It’s a cruel thing, that spark.

It grants you glimpses of a life you never knew you needed,

only to be extinguished from the ashamed sighs of the life you currently live.

Life is too short to waste on erratic feelings that cannot define you.

You are a beautiful creation which generations of love sculpted, and one Maker perfected.

You don’t need a spark, becuase you are already living one.