We forget. Time passes and we become disenchanted. The magic fades and disperses, scattering like fairy-dust over textbooks and discarded pairs of shoes. The gloss chips like nailpolish and flakes off in the car. We grow up. We grow older. We rush and stress and bustle and hurtle through our lives without stopping to listen for a melody we’ve missed for years. We pretend we don’t miss the perfection of the Enchanted World. A world where anything is possible. Where everything is beautiful. Where even pain and sorrow and grief burst on out tongues and fill our mouths with sweetness. Where Peter Pan flits just beyond the window, and there are fairies in the flowers at the bottom of the garden.
We forget to smell the scent of rain in the summer wind, or the kiss of the sun on bare shoulders. We cling to our maps and our phones and our laptops and out diaries. We toss out the street directory and tap our destination into a GPS. We forget to listen.
But sometimes - sometimes - something reminds us of that world. It catches us up and sweeps us into a private waltz with nothing but ourselves and our imaginations. It floods our senses and washes away all our cares and worriers and weariness in a burst of passion. It is imagination reborn. It is the Enchanted World, returned to reclaim its lost children.