The Lost Place

you'll just have to guess what fairytale I've taken on this time.

Darting between dreams and the unconscious there is an idea. An idea of a place without limitation, an idea with vigour and excitement that constantly struggles to be born into our fragile minds. Maybe this idea only exists within the minds of children. Maybe it only exists within the opiated comas of lost minds.

Whether or not you or I believe in its existence, this idea lives. Where precisely has been lost to the industrial revolution. For no one mind can hold onto its presence while in the grips of technology. You might say that it’s a place that was never there in the first place. But to know for sure, we shall never really know.

This place, which seemed to enjoy lingering just outside of London, England was a beacon to the lost. To people who felt hopeless, helpless. To people who have felt despair so deeply you could not even fathom the pain. A beacon to those who were desperate to hold on. This lost place was just as lost as the beings who found themselves there. Which is precisely why on one rather brilliant night, when the moon shone so brightly in the night sky it felt as if it could be daytime, a small boy wandered from his bed out onto the smooth cobblestones and started to walk.

He walked until he could no longer see, or feel his limbs. He walked until he was stumbling. That stumbling turned into a slow crawl, and from there into a paddle through tepid water. When every ounce of energy escaped him, he floated weightless-

he had arrived.

The End

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