Buried. Hidden. Forgotten. It’s been a long time since I have held this book. I’ve almost forgotten about it. Almost forgotten that it existed. Because I had hidden it behind all the other books in my bookcase. Buried it under all the dust and cobwebs.

But now I’m forced to take it out once again. Forced to let the stories see daylight, forced to read out the tales yet again.

I really don’t want to. But I have to.

I hold the dust-covered volume in my hands. It is a fairytale. Or more accurately, a collection of fairytales.

I take a seat, a mug of blackcurrant flavored tea in one hand, the book in another. I take a good look at the book. I let in a deep breath and, gingerly, I begin to finger through its long forgotten pages.

My eyes land on one familiar page. A humble maidservant stands out as the protagonist. Her eyes are full of hopes and dreams. She has heard of Cinderella stories, and she is certain that one day, her fairy godmother would come, transform her into a princess, and then whisk her to that royal ball, where she would meet and fall in love with the most charming of prince charmings.

But the fairy godmother never comes. And prince charming falls for another girl – that girl whose dainty foot fits into that tiny crystal slipper.

I leaf through the pages once again.

This time, I stop as the name of a wicked step-sister catches my eye. She is angered. She is in fury. She has never felt so betrayed.

Oh sure. She always knew that the prince would end up with her naïve step-sister. She always knew that he’d pick the beauty over her. But she still couldn’t help but feel enraged.

Not at the prince. But at herself. Because she had allowed herself to hope beyond hope.

I leave that story behind and move on to another.

The name of a princess fills this page. She is locked in a tower. Patiently waiting for her prince to come. She busies herself by learning the arts, by devouring literature, by cooking up culinary wonders. She prepares herself without meaning to prepare herself.

But alas. Her pure and beautiful nature catches a wizard’s eye.

He relentlessly pursues her, though she relentlessly tells him that the time – not to mention her prince – has not yet come.

I quickly leave that page behind.

I thumb through the rest of the pages, at times bursting into laughter, at times bursting into tears.

I’ve forgotten all those stories. But now, reading through the dusty book’s pages – I begin to breathe out a sigh of relief and thanksgiving, knowing that those tales are now simply that – mere tales.

A newer tale is brought into mind. A tale written inside a book which, incidentally, is hidden as well.

But not buried. And dear me, never forgotten. But it is kept inside a chest. A beautiful, beautiful chest. One with a lock and key.

Unlike the dusty book, I do not know what tale the newer book contains. But I know the story is being written out, even as I type these words out. I am tempted to break the chest open, tempted to take a look at what is going on in that book – but that would just ruin everything. The chest. The book. The tale.

And I know that one day, someone will give me the key. And then I’ll be able to take that book out. And then I’ll be able to read the words that were written. And anticipate those that are still to be.

:)