30/5/25 I am inhabited by a cry

Ever since I was little,

I’ve known I was a fairy.

I loved whimsical worlds.

I loved dancing with the wind.

I loved molding mud with my hands.

I loved leaping barefoot across hillsides.

I loved resting my head against the trunks of trees.

I loved drawing on my own skin.

I loved feeling insects crawl slowly across my palms.

I loved cutting my hair however I wished,

and weaving leaves into it.

I was a wandering fairy,

drifting wherever the wind led me,

chasing after glimmers of light,

shaped by flowing streams,

drenched by falling rain,

and finding endless joy in it.

I kept exploring the edges of love and myself.

I loved to give,

I loved to share,

I loved to connect.

There was so much love inside me,

so much curiosity.

I flew and flew.

Sometimes,

I shone so brightly in my solitude;

other times,

I spun giddy with my own delight;

As I circled among the branches,

I kept wondering:

what kind of magic other fairies carried in their baskets?

Perhaps a plump caterpillar,

a faded leaf,

a heavy pomegranate,

or a silent seed,

a whisper of a distant blossom...

In the shifting play of light and shadow,

I was lucky enough to meet many beautiful fairy friends.

We inspired each other,

we supported each other,

we kept each other company,

and pointed out the hidden darkness beneath the surface.

Some of them stayed by my side,

others set off on their own paths.

As for a romantic fairy—

the companions who walked with me always stayed just for a while,

before we gently parted ways,

each of us flying on toward our own horizons.

But the one I longed to meet—

was someone who could walk with me for a very, very long time,

someone gentle and steadfast,

someone who would stay.

Maybe I was too impatient.

Maybe I was afraid of the darkness.

Maybe I lacked patience, or the courage I needed.

Maybe I just wasn’t lucky enough.

Maybe my wizard was still somewhere far away, building his tree.

Maybe I was too enraptured by the whispers of the stars.

Maybe I couldn’t see the world for what it was.

Maybe I was simply lost in my own fantasies and illusions.

Maybe, maybe, maybe...

Gradually, I stopped stubbornly searching for that magical tree.

I stopped waiting for a wizard to arrive.

I began, instead,

to build a tree of my own.

With my tattered wings,

I gathered fallen branches and leaves,

and with the tears I had shed,

I watered the tender new sprouts.

I learned to gather my own magic,

to hold my own real power,

to offer myself warmth in the storm,

to preserve love—for myself, and for the world around me.

I no longer wandered aimlessly.

I rooted myself in my own soil,

and with the fairies whose hearts resonated with mine,

we watered each other,

cared for each other,

inspired each other

—without clinging, without depending.

More and more,

I found myself alone,

and yet at peace.

I learned to gently tend to the wounds of the little fairy inside me,

to let her be seen,

to let her be heard,

to let her be accepted,

to let her be loved.

And slowly,

I realized:

it didn’t matter if there was no wizard.

I could be enough for myself.

Then,

in a very, very quiet moment,

I felt a faint kind of happiness—

lonely, but liberating.

One day,

seemingly out of nowhere,

I found a magical tree—

warm, safe, quietly calling out to me.

Inside the hollow,

there lived a wizard—

kind, wise, full of love, and a touch of mischief.

I was drawn to him.

He reached out to me,

and gently promised:

This could be your home.

You could stay as long as you wanted.

There would be honey, and magic, love and nurture.

He seemed different—

not another's wizard,

not a heartless vampire,

not a beautiful but hollow illusion,

not a cold and silent muggle.

I was thrilled,

overjoyed,

almost breathless with excitement.

Without a second thought,

I wanted to pour out all the magic in my basket—

handfuls of tiny, trembling beans,

each one a seed of magic—

and scatter them at his feet,

scatter them between us,

hoping they would take root

and water us,

nourish us,

grow us into something strong and beautiful.

But lost in the shifting play of light and shadow,

I began to lose my sense of what was real.

Slowly,

I realized the hollow wasn't just a cradle;

it was a swamp,

sticky and dark,

and hidden knives glinted in the depths.

They tore through my glittering, delicate, translucent wings,

and along with them,

ripped open my fragile and sincere heart.

My wings grew heavy.

Each movement,

each faint tremor,

sent fresh blood spilling from the wounds in my heart.

The safety, love, and magic the wizard had promised me—

had it all been an illusion?

I burned with anger.

Burned with injustice.

Burned with resentment.

My Scorpio rising came roaring out,

claws bared.

I hurled the knives, the cold, the mud back at him.

The wizard's heart was wounded, too.

But maybe, that was what he was meant to bear.

I couldn’t find it in myself to be compassionate,

even though compassion and gentleness were once written into my very nature.

But anger, vengeance,

they, too,

flow through my blood like a second language.

And still—

parts of my heart,

and my wings,

had already fused with that tree,

with that wizard.

If I tore myself away now,

I knew—I would rip apart even my wounded wings, and the last glimmering spark on them would be lost to the darkness.

That love,

that hope,

had long ago melted into my being.

I couldn’t simply cast it away.

I am still bleeding.

Carefully, I cradle my wounds gently in my palms.

What am I searching for?

Sigh.

Maybe,

none of this ever made sense to begin with.

Maybe,

I would never meet the wizard I thought I would find.

Maybe,

there were no wizards in this world.

Maybe,

I wasn’t even a fairy, after all.