If I should attempt to make romantic assumptions on the ideals of love affairs, then such assumptions should be the vision of a blind. I grope unseeing with a singular guide of fantasy. Fairytales spawn wicked thoughts of a girl searching for true love's resolution. Is there a prince, somewhere out in the world for me? Should he happen on my tower, the probably of a like chance comparitively minute?
Should books be my only light in my obscure understandings, I will be supremely disappointed. There is no prince, and chances are so comparitively minute that the probabilty of discovery is but a fantasy.
As much as sense denies the whim of my imagination, words of untarnished 'Happily Ever Afters' spread their roots. They are innocent in their conception, but deadly in their consequence.
Each girl, a dreamer, must grow into a utilitarian woman. We sacrifice our fanciful hearts and bind our hands with wedding rings. The reality of our age forces our voiceless gender into the slavery of marriage. We are dolls bought to supplement their households, mares to raise the herd, and hens to nestle the brood. We are valued for our homely productivity, for our horse flesh. Should we strike independent, we isolate ourselves and enter into shameful poverty. It is then we are useless to family and to society.
So how does one approach, and understand, Love when, in this world of mine, it is proven nonexistant? I shall be bartered away to the highest bidder, just as the other women of this grand auction. There are few who wed for Love, or so fortunately feel it for their designated match, when all that matters to these elite of breeders is money. Is there even such a feeling to understand?
Fairytales allow us all hope. Perhaps we should be as lucky as those who claim Love as their emotion. But such a hope has a deadly consequence - a broken heart disappointed by life's realities.