So sure are you of the endless drumming rhythm of your isolation
That you are painfully slow to adjust
If only because
Yours is not that genre of story
Still and again, life cannot muster the stuff of movies
No bullets shattering glass
Instead fear sits patiently
Fear almost smiles when you finally see him
Though you have kept him waiting for thirty-three years
Ani Difranco - Parameters
That you are painfully slow to adjust
If only because
Yours is not that genre of story
Still and again, life cannot muster the stuff of movies
No bullets shattering glass
Instead fear sits patiently
Fear almost smiles when you finally see him
Though you have kept him waiting for thirty-three years
Ani Difranco - Parameters
Thirty three years ago, Cinderella died. Was it right? No, she was not supposed to. Was she sick? No, she was killed.
Thirty three years go by and not once do you sense remorse. Not once do you regret it. Not once do you think of your poor sister. Of your “step” sister, who happened to have the needed shoe size.
Thirty three years go by, and you are still living in the castle. He is still right next to you, no longer desperate. The memory of Cinderella fades. Every year, a little by little, you wipe her out of his conscious. You support him; support him in his quest of forgetness.
You are a cold case lover, in a relationship based on nothing. In a fake, illusional relationship; while you are disillusioned. You no longer dream to be the princess. Not once do you regret the action; you are just not content with the result.
Thirty three years go by and he still does not love you, he even does not love her any more. Thirty three years, you killer. All this time, there was no punishment. The crime was secret, it was perfect. Every villain would use you as a teacher. And you? You became a lonely creature of the night. You thought there would be no consequences. You weren’t right, though, were you? What was the prize? The prize of a life lived in vain, of a life lived in darkness. So afraid of the suspicious eyes, you hid yourself in the castle.
What castle? It is no longer appealing. It is no longer welcoming, even though it is fabulous. A fabulous jail; a wonderful place to hide, to hide from the world. And still, you don’t regret it. Your hatred won over, but your heart was lost. Building carefully your dungeon, it is now your home. You welcome the night, and despise the sunlight. The sunlight is where you see her; her lightened face, her cheerful smile, her loving husband.
Thirty three years go by, and your mother is dead. Your father is away, and there is no one left. No one left to support you, to hug you.
Thirty three years of loneliness.
What now? You will switch on the light, and put your dress. You will put your shoe, yes the same one, which he put on your foot thirty three years ago. Because, you were there, in all the happy endings. While she, the real Cinderella, his true love, well she never existed, or at least not in any numbered list, or city counting. She was your sister, you sister of the night. Because she was you, before you entered the castle, and began indulging yourself in the fake parade of appearances, where you lost your sense.
Thirty three years go by, and she will never come back, she would never return. And you would never escape. You won’t, until you kill your two identities. For real, you and her, her and you, the powerful tandem, made up of ghost and a shadow. A shadow of a person, with the ghost of the past.
Thirty three years go by and not once do you sense remorse. Not once do you regret it. Not once do you think of your poor sister. Of your “step” sister, who happened to have the needed shoe size.
Thirty three years go by, and you are still living in the castle. He is still right next to you, no longer desperate. The memory of Cinderella fades. Every year, a little by little, you wipe her out of his conscious. You support him; support him in his quest of forgetness.
You are a cold case lover, in a relationship based on nothing. In a fake, illusional relationship; while you are disillusioned. You no longer dream to be the princess. Not once do you regret the action; you are just not content with the result.
Thirty three years go by and he still does not love you, he even does not love her any more. Thirty three years, you killer. All this time, there was no punishment. The crime was secret, it was perfect. Every villain would use you as a teacher. And you? You became a lonely creature of the night. You thought there would be no consequences. You weren’t right, though, were you? What was the prize? The prize of a life lived in vain, of a life lived in darkness. So afraid of the suspicious eyes, you hid yourself in the castle.
What castle? It is no longer appealing. It is no longer welcoming, even though it is fabulous. A fabulous jail; a wonderful place to hide, to hide from the world. And still, you don’t regret it. Your hatred won over, but your heart was lost. Building carefully your dungeon, it is now your home. You welcome the night, and despise the sunlight. The sunlight is where you see her; her lightened face, her cheerful smile, her loving husband.
Thirty three years go by, and your mother is dead. Your father is away, and there is no one left. No one left to support you, to hug you.
Thirty three years of loneliness.
What now? You will switch on the light, and put your dress. You will put your shoe, yes the same one, which he put on your foot thirty three years ago. Because, you were there, in all the happy endings. While she, the real Cinderella, his true love, well she never existed, or at least not in any numbered list, or city counting. She was your sister, you sister of the night. Because she was you, before you entered the castle, and began indulging yourself in the fake parade of appearances, where you lost your sense.
Thirty three years go by, and she will never come back, she would never return. And you would never escape. You won’t, until you kill your two identities. For real, you and her, her and you, the powerful tandem, made up of ghost and a shadow. A shadow of a person, with the ghost of the past.
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