Wonderland.

Wonderland.

Falling through the looking glass, spiraling down the rabbit hole; finding one in wonderland. Dusting off the dirt from the powder blue dress and walking over to the mirror. A reflection coming into view; distressed and wide-eyed expression marking the face in the mirror. Smoke fogging the glass only to be wiped off and seeing the other side. From wonderland to the land of the lost; one can see what was left behind. Time is a strange concept in wonderland, for a century here is a mere minute on the other side. The land of the lost holds old treasures and old loves, where in wonderland holds new marvels, possibilities, the opportunities to purified oneself, and to scorch the soul. Vanquish the old riddles, dismiss any ridiculous concepts of destiny and so called connections. Standing by the looking glass, one can see those in the land of the lost and how they seem to be transparent and their old sayings are nothing more but old testaments of how words become nothing more than smoke. In wonderland, all that is- is nothing more than what was. A mirage of film and tales passed down from desperate folk; dreams and old wishes are as valuable as the dust on the fabric of the dress draped over cold shoulders. Looking glass provides reflection, both internal and external; not being seen but having your wondering gaze examine the land. Knowing what is being transpired and having the raindrops falling down are mere teardrops. The fabric of the old dress, being ripped into shreds. Having the whispering  become a harmony. Illuminating the dark path behind in which is the new course of this new life in wonderland.  Becoming mad in order to surrender, allowing the escape be permanent.