Fairytales.

She holds no inspiration for you with her silly banter of dreams, hopes, the future. It is almost comically infectious, this facade, such a singularly placed focus on a blurry aim. Like lips bitten, bleeding with forced concentration. "The intensity is killing us!" scream out her thoughts as she tries hard, so very hard to shut off every bit of thinking, all the day dreaming that got no one anywhere, because these idiosyncrasies, she realises, were special only to her.

Have always been, because he turned around and away and he is now but a blur on another ocean, another land she only dreams of. And she to him, is as unreal as that which he cannot see through his lens, the lens which captures much in it's sparkling definition and power. But she is not part of that picture, or any other pictures. She will watch with a longing for a time to come, and then gather her determination to announce, eventually, she doesn't need it anymore. That there is nothing to fret over. When there is, there is so much to dwell on. Because that is the habit of the pointless and the daydreamers: they linger, they plan, they watch their sandcastles being washed away and shed seas from their own eyes. And how many times has it been pointed out to them that they will be unsuccessful? That they are counting on that which has no basis in reality? Countless. Still all she thinks of is " but the dreaming never hurt anyone." No, it didn't. But he tired of it, because you cannot take pictures of dreams. You cannot turn them into film. You cannot see them, touch them on a regular basis. And so, it means nothing.

So she takes his nothing, captures it in her box of dreams, and allows it to clean away the nonsense in her head, while he lingers on in her heart, and she asks herself why?

She's waiting for a peculiar looking elf to jump out of nowhere, decked in Vegas neons, shouting "Hey YOU!! I'm hope at the end of a tunnel!!". She'll never learn.