From the Perspective of Fairies

What one doesn’t realise is that the most delicate of things hold all the power. Take for example a ripple. It starts with the smallest disturbance on the surface of water. That one pinpoint prick results in the entire body of water to become patterned with circumscribed circles. Take for example an echo. One single note conjured from the larynx of a mortal, standing atop a mountain, can provide an entire valley with music.

Our job as fairies is to pepper the world with the most delicate of details. We believe in beauty derived from intricacy. As mortals lie asleep, oblivious, we tactfully tiptoe upon their world and place dew upon their grass and colour upon their flowers, priming and painting a place they so easily damage. So guiltlessly.

The claimed sightings of us are false. They are not our kind, noisily and carelessly demonstrating their freedom. They are far too robust. We are of a much daintier kind. The size of us is not realised, but let me expose it when I say it takes an army to place a dewdrop. Our nimble size proves us invisible and silent, non-existent even, but this is far from the truth. Our laughter is at a frequency inaudible to mortals, but we laugh with such vigour, we sing with such lust. If one were to look closely they would find trails of elation from when we had danced the night before, illuminated by the moonlight.

But one does not often look closer. Mortals are too of a robust kind, but in the sense of overlooking and disbelief. Although we are believed to be immortal, we are not indestructible, and so many of us suffer. So many of us are taken by the bullet of not believing. As of recently we have been dropping as rapidly as rain does from the sky, in this world of increasing scepticism and disbelief in magic. There is too much than can be explained, and so things unexplainable are deemed not true or make believe.

Our extinction would mean that the world would lose its fine detailing. Mortals take it for granted but soon you will grow simple, a world of rounded edges, fading to grey. A black and white world. Details will blur, clump together, and the world will most probably become a compilation of hulking, unrecognisable objects. Take for example a tree. What is so beautiful about the tree is not the tree itself but the wiry limbs, the gaps between the leaves, the shadows it casts.

But for now we are surviving on the innocent minds of tiny mortals, who are not yet corrupted with questioning. For now we are lasting out time, keeping ourselves hidden under moonlit darkness.

Elevated World

Went away to an elevated world on which trees uproot upwards to avoid chainsaws and men bring their wives closer and most of you don’t even exist.

No more geometric shapes of plane crashes confined to classrooms, no more confinement of classrooms in classrooms and proved right that this is all going over my head. Actually, all going under cause really I’m floating and this isn’t coming with me.


Despite the respite that sifts through the leaves
that branch off the tree of your worst nightmare and funny to relate it to trees because they stay rooted while your helium head floats away and this is not really funny.

Back to the sitting, drifting towards your window and breathe in the ability in preparation of falling into the grip of a sinkhole and it wasn’t a slip because your future isn’t an accident but it isn’t pre-designed either.

Not just stumbling upon circumstances because the variations all exist you just go through choosing.

Capital Letters

Total capacity too full with the ‘required’ things. I’m sorry but it has stretched to the farthest corners, pressed up against the walls and now there is no more room for Individual Growth. Obsessed with futures that include capital letters ‘gotta BE somebody’, have to show for something.

The duller tends to be the comparison, their futures open out by mine closes in. Will always be the model of the Lesser but at least I’ve already determined my capital letter.


A lot of repetition on the same subject but the fact remains that this is recognition, I keep falling on to the same floor of a subject but if this is recognition then I still can’t see why anyone has never told me they loved me and meant it. How can you tell and how is this different and how do I know this is safe and it’s a lie that things disintegrate in dishwashing liquid and raised intonations get stuck in cracked knuckles and I don’t even remember writing this sentence let alone reading any others and is it truly impossible in writing to convey what you need to say but the beauty of this all is that none of it can ever really be explained.

Too much said in one breath of ink but she knows and she knows and I am finally recognising.


‘Planets have parted in my frontal lobe and now the Night is where I go to glow. It’s been two tragic years of the beautiful stillness when the illness has defeated you and knocked out your light.’

Like the vosfluorescent plankton you glow when provoked, but only then because by day you are different and by night you don’t have the energy to make the transition if you don’t think anyone is watching.

You glow green only for other people because you’re really just as god damned boring as the krill waiting to be swallowed whole by the next mammal.

Your head is someone else’s bad life.

I’ll never fight the infinite tenderness, there has been too much breath inbetween to say I am bigger now because I am no better. Each of us, on any side, can’t say hate, can’t say love, can’t give forgiveness.

We didn’t just grow up together, we grew up because of eachother.