We’re all believers.
Of beautiful things, of magical dreams.
Until the truth broke us. Oh yes, that hateful truth.
We used to believe in miracles.
Of fairies, of angels, of balloons.
Of so many things we fear to take a faith in now.
Fear that we’ll become a fool to believe again.
How nostalgic, how bittersweet.
We used to believe in happy endings and happily ever after.
Oh how the past tense feels so wicked.
Once upon a childhood times.
We believe that there’re so many worlds to explore.
We’re adventurous. We wanted to find out.
But when we grow up. We fear.
What exactly we’re afraid of?
Why we have to grow up?
If it means we have to stop dreaming.
About the impossible to come true?
Can we fly?
Can we cast fire to melt ice?
Can we bring light in the dark?
Or… does anyone still believe that we can,
somehow heal people who get hurt?
Can we go back?
And make it twice?
And don’t lose the faith that we can.
And believe that we can save the world.
And love forever.
And be happy.