Haunted, or memories, or children come.

Memory. Wistful wondering misted mornings. But now, this sorry Mistress in Mourning amongst the wisteria blooming is just a slip into worlds of imagination. The sweet sense of hysteria looming over the presiding mansions of hyacinth and lupine sends this girl into childhood again, some children into the adulthood of reason.
The memories of once having “wistfulness” flicker and wince for tinny moments in her mind, but then slip away into a numb translucent mind liquid just as the contentment falls like snow to replace them. Songs to aging children come. Aging children, we are one. Though the heavy stringent rawness of longing subsides to cool warmth of darlings and dears and devoted commitments over the years, an emptiness forms where once the longing was so desperate. The longing is slowly dieing. It would give anything not to die. It begs to not make way to an emptiness that will eventually be filled by something more than it. For it lives absolutely selfishly, the most selfish illusion, and would do anything and betray anyone to avoid selflessness. It is a tragedy that so many face in selfishness. In doing so the “wistfulness” only perpetuates an illusion. Forever, an illusion. Never to come true. Never to be lived up to. So who would want to stop it from dying? No one could even try to fight against its death. It is a secret sly thing of abuse and scare and discontentment even though once it did blossom the holiest of holy daydreams and the most picturesque landscapes of torment. Those were torments that flourished so defiantly once within halls and parlors, green mountains, rooftops in smoggy towering cities, airplane seats, country roads, cafes in foreign lands, bookshops, taverns, clubs, books themselves, cathedrals, the gardens there, and the imaginative writings of 12 year old girls with souls ready to romance the everything of the world around them. Or at least be romanced by it all. Yet the war is now won. It is too late to turn back, because the overwhelming sense has occurred that yes, indeed, love does conquer all. Even if it is the kind of love that turns into the sweetest sleep, even love can conquer the wistfulness. And replacing the twisted once-torment, comes a bright bearing sun filled with the gold that is god’s pure riches in the world. Now those halls, those mountains, those roads and cafes and bookshops are seen for what they truly are, and not for a mere backdrop to an ideal love filled with torment. With love comes really, that frown turned upside-down. The whole world is now the affair, every child, every dawning, every street alone. Each bird is a world. Each butterfly, each new person, each incident stands alone now. The world is now the romance. And such a more vast place to begin from, the world, rather than one's tiny mind. The result of letting the wistfulness wither away, of letting it scream itself selfishly to death begging to not be ignored, is the beauty of each thing singularly.