bah.

Something older, since I've been feeling (characteristically) uninspired, yet obligated to present some sort of something:

I was a little girl once, with exceptional dreams and unkempt hair. Spinning circles with wide-open arms, weaving tales with impossibly expensive thread. My mind was left to wander, returning hours later with souvenirs from Possibility and Expectation. I still have the postcards I'd written to my future self in shaky, just-learned cursive. I was a cartographer in a puff of tulle, articulating a very specific life course. Dry skin and cracked nails trace the passes of pen on paper. I've considered writing letters in response to me-in-the-past, but pink dresses and white shoes aren't meant to be marred.