Destroying A Fairytale: Semi-Fiction

After the years of assuming one would never live such an existence, it appeared as though I had also convinced myself, that if such were to happen, it were to be either a daydream manifesting itself as reality, or something to be destroyed. Pessimism were becoming a trend.

In the year I turned twenty-one, I took a trip; one of which should have been laced with happiness and great food, at the same time as coming back having embraced every scent, every view, colour and street. It should have been a trip of fulfilment. It should have, or at least could have been, the trip which made me, the one which inspired me to create, to become or at least to attempt to live in a way cinema has so taught us, or deceived us to believe that there is a pinnacle in life- a moment, trip or day, which greatly changes us. It may have been that I forced the idea, or misguide myself into believing such falsifications, but i’d soon discover this trip would somewhat break me, into slivers of destroyed hope and idealistic-possibilities over allowing oneself the realism of it all.

I had been aware, for some time, that idealism had taken over like a phantom  state of living. I had also been aware for some time, that things had changed, that things were different, and that my mind had been contaminated with the anxieties of the world.

At approximately eight in the evening, the city lights of this concrete metropolis, shone down, refracting from the shards of architecture. At approximately ten that same evening, things were at there clearest in the foggy night sky, which brushed the skyscrapers as it crept down the glass and steel and concrete. At approximately three in the early morning, as I woke by accident almost on purpose, I went to the window of the thirty-fourth floor. I pushed back the mesh curtains, pulled up the blind with greater force than I and anticipated, and there, I revealed to myself, the most captivating view imaginable. And at the point of looking out, across at the enticingly beautiful, luminous and twenty-four-hour workings of this grand city, I felt, for the last time in what would become seven days, the most significant and beautiful feeling in the pit of my stomach, where, at some point in the afternoon after the sun were to rise, the pit of my stomach were to be filled with the unwelcome feeling of tortuous butterflies.

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