She collected her tears in a bowl.
The bowl collected her tears by itself.
A shiny bowl a fairy promised would eventually fill up.
“Once it fills, you will make a wish, a wish that I promise will come true my dear one”
She believed her. It was a fairy after all.
But years had come by and years had flown away, and the bowl was yet half full.
She didn’t want to cry, her sad eyes tired of the waterfalls.
She never dropped her tears at the bowl, because how could she? They just appeared there, a bit more each time her heart was bumping nothing but sadness.
It seemed to never fill up more than by its half.
A part of her desiring the glass magic bowl to eventually fill, so she could finally make her wish.
A part of her desiring it to never fill, because doing so would require so much more suffering.
And suffering was the wish she wanted to make. A wish to stop the suffering.
An infinite paradox was what she found, her brown hair and almond skin.
A never ending cycle of desiring but being afraid of such desire.
Her honey colored eyes dancing in the dark. Filled with the fear of fear.
And she grew old.
She grew old. Not her skin, which was terse and shiny.
She grew old. Not her white smile that helped to survive.
She grew old. Because her eyes did.
Her eyes, an open door to whoever dared to obverse and see her.
She grew old to the point of finally understanding what her long gone fairy meant by an empty bowl.
It was not meant to be filled with tears.
It was meant to be filled with the emptiness of tears.
So she made her wish.
A wish to be a fairy, and to give her wondrous magic bowl to the next one.