You want to tell an amazing story. You want to be a kid again and come up with things no adult ever could, things like flowers spun from sugar that could save a princess with a sleeping disorder and itchy skin but beautiful hair from death and re-animation. Things like vegetarian zombies that chewed on leaves but people shot them anyway, even though their moans were secret cries of, 'please, don't.' Things like love. It was the love you always wanted to write about. But the creativity...it never came for that.


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Snow falls and so do you. You spin around and around in the frozen water and close your eyes and wonder if you can wish on a snowflake. You decide it would be pointless; none of your star wishes ever came true. You collapse and roll around in the snow, not caring that your clothes are getting soaking wet and that your skin instantly drops a bazillion degrees. You close your eyes and wish, wish anyway, that the world would stay the same.


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You fear getting old. Oh, the sorrow of having to stay in a bed or chair all the time. The feeling of soft, withered skin and veins popping from your gnarled hands. You go to a home one day, to try and face what you will become. It smells like disinfectant and something else you recognize but don't want to - maybe impending death. The nurse assigns you a room and you go and sit with a man that looks like he sprang from the earth hundreds of years ago. You talk about the cold weather and your almost-writing and your sugar-cracked dreams. And when you finish you realize he can't really see you, he can't really hear you. He's not here; he's off somewhere. You've been talking to yourself.


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The dream shattered and the princess ate the flower but it didn't help and she turned into an un-dead anyway. The zombies who only enjoyed eating green beans and carrots and the rare tomato lie dead in their own blood. The love, oh the love. You can't imagine a story to go with that.