Once upon a now, there was a girl.
Her mind resided between the lands of dreams and fairytales.
She had everything any kid could ever want and even the flowers in her garden were her sweet and loyal friends.
Still, something deep inside her, a strong desire, grew stronger everyday. She wanted to run after adventure.
She wanted more.
And so, one day, she followed After Alice’s steps instead and went through the looking glass in her bedroom.
Through the mirror, she encountered a new dimension. Her world in the realm of fantasy. And everything was fascinating.
At first.
Soon after arriving, she realised the door in this new fantasy bedroom could not be opened and she was now locked in there to bore away.
As boredom ceased, a new feeling appeared: anxiety. The girl felt distressed about the tiny space she was now in and could not escape from. This was supposed to be dreamy but it felt more like a nightmare.
She blamed the stories and the fairies and the lovely things people had always said about them. Why had she always believed them? Everyone else did nothing but lie!
Yes. She kept blaming everyone else but herself and never realised how lucky she’d always been to dream and live happily back home.
Concept: Cristina Franco & Laura Frutos.
Photography: Cristina Franco (@crisfrancophoto on insta).
Text, Model & Styling: Laura Frutos (@laura.frcg).
We are but older children, dear.
«Child of the pure unclouded brow» by Lewis Carroll
Child of the pure unclouded brow
And dreaming eyes of wonder!
Though time be fleet, and I and thou
Are half a life asunder,
Thy loving smile will surely hail
The love-gift of a fairy-tale.
I have not seen thy sunny face,
Nor heard thy silver laughter:
No thought of me shall find a place
In thy young life’s hereafter–
Enough that now thou wilt not fail
To listen to my fairy-tale.
A tale begun in other days,
When summer suns were glowing–
A simple chime, that served in time
The rhythm of our rowing–
Whose echoes live in memory yet,
Though envious years would say “forget”.
Come, hearken then, ere voice of dread,
With bitter tidings laden,
Shall summon to unwelcome bed
A melancholy maiden!
We are but older children, dear,
Who fret to find our bedtime near.
Without, the frost, the blinding snow,
The storm-wind’s moody madness–
Within, the firelight’s ruddy glow,
And childhood’s nest of gladness.
The magic words shall hold thee fast:
Thou shalt not heed the raving blast.
And, though the shadow of a sigh
May tremble through the story,
For “happy summer days” gone by,
And vanish’d summer glory–
It shall not touch with breath of bale,
The pleasance of our fairy-tale.
Reneossance 