Taking pen to paper, thoughts to words, written in the swirling curves that are considered letters in her language. She is alone, in a world that she made herself. An entire kingdom, where children wonder without sadness or heartbreak, yet she knows happiness doesn’t sell. People seem to no longer care if the princess lived happily ever after or if the runt grew to be something great. Had the princess been burned at the stake or the runt been put to sleep, then people would cheer without knowing why. Because pain and suffering sells, people want to know their lives are better… They want to know they have power over those who don’t matter.

Words flow, without her thinking on them. No hesitation is made as she writes of the morbid death of someone’s child, someone’s love. She doesn’t understand her own darkness; she doesn’t understand her own hatred. Everything is bleak in her world, the castles of all crumbled and she doesn’t remember the last time she heard the sweet laughter of a baby.

People still come and watch her, they still buy her finished work. No one wants happiness anymore. But they still love to watch her… Taking pen to paper, thoughts to words, written in the swirling curves that are considered letters in her language