silver linings on the setting sun
"Man is least himself when he talks in his own person. Give him a mask, and he will tell you the truth." -- Oscar Wilde

nyc transplant, canadian soul. sporadic brushstrokes, occasional penmanship, continuous wandering.

In the rain, the mountains are shrouded in mist and the trees stand out green against the blank white sky; from a distance the castle perches on the treetops and the stone pales even whiter among grander things. Lonely people build lonely things, and even with the tens upon thousands of tourists that walk through its doors, its magnificently gilded halls are sit silently, chairs unoccupied, beds untouched.

Perhaps on a sunny day this place might have been more simple, more Disney-fairytale. But in the rain, looking out from its windows over the stretch of countryside, the swell of mountains, and the shrouded lakes between them, the world is eerie and silent even with the incessant chatter of people. In the rain, the darkness within the walls isn’t held back even with artificial light.

When the glitter is washed away, fairytales don’t always have happily ever afters.

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