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It’s grim for any girl who loses her way. Grimmer still for a girl who loses herself.
Everyone said a girl’s will must be bent to the wishes of those who know what’s best for her.
No one jeers louder at a hanging than the cutthroat who got away.
Most people will fight when there is some hope of winning, no matter how slim. They are called brave. Only a few will keep fighting when all hope is gone. They are called warriors.
It does not look good. Then again, few things do in the dead of night. The small dark hours are the undoing of many. Candlelight throws shadows on the walls of our souls, shadows that turn a mouse into a monster, a downturn into disaster. Should you ever decide, in those small dark hours, to hang yourself, well, that is your choice. But don’t hunt for the rope until morning. By then you’ll find a much better use for it.
“Strange, isn’t it, how stories that are never told are the ones we most need to hear,”
Believe that you can make your way. Or don’t. Either way, you are right. Every war is different, yet each battle is the same. The enemy is only a distraction. The thing you are fighting against, always, is yourself.
Fairy tales give it to us straight. They tell us something profound and essential—that the woods are real, and dark, and full of wolves. That we will, at times, find ourselves hopelessly lost in them. But these tales also tell us that we are all we need, that we have all we need—guts, smarts, and maybe a pocketful of breadcrumbs—to find our way home.
