I always say that I want a love that makes me feel like the Wonderland is brought right to my feet without the need to follow the White Rabbit down the hole, competing with the ticking clock.
I always say that I want to be grateful, the same way of how the lonely Fox felt when the Little Prince stayed, every day an inch closer than the day before until he was finally sure enough to tame his wild heart for him, opening the door and let him walk in.
But sometimes, when the stories end, the pages won't stop flipping back to where they started, and I can't do anything but to watch Alice waking up not knowing Wonderland exists, or the Fox wither along with the grass since the Little Prince never leave his tiny planet for his conceited Rose.
At times like this, I find myself stumbling against this weird feeling, a combination of a little sting from longing for something to hold onto so dearly, a little spark of excitement from wanting to try something new, and a little anxiety from not knowing what will I encounter next and whether or not the pain will worth it.
So when a new book appeared, I just kept staring at its blank pages, knowing whatever I write will end up the way I start writing it: A girl inside her box.
Little did I know, that the story of Alice and the Fox have been completed, and though it's a sick cycle, Alice and the Fox did find their Wonderland- their Prince, and no matter how insanely tiring their journeys were, they would eventually meet their own version of happy ending in the end.
While my story, it never starts. I'm still a girl inside her box.
