Songs & Stories 2025*

*this is an updated version of a previous post of the same name from 2019

There once was a girl with a pretty little curl right in the middle of her forehead. And when she was happy, everyone was happy. And when she was mad, well, everyone knew it and felt it.

The little girl with the pretty little curl liked to sing while she worked. She also liked to tell stories where she built entire worlds from the dust of her imagination. Each song, a heartbeat; each story, a breath. She was made of melody and ink, and she wove them into the fabric of her days.

But as she grew, the world grew tired of her songs.

Hushed in school, shushed at home, she was told to focus, to be still, to listen instead of speak. And when quiet words failed to dim her spirit, they placed pills upon her tongue. “This will help you,” they said, pressing them like commandments into her palm. And because she believed in the wisdom of those who had lived longer, she swallowed.

Still, the stories whispered within her. Still, the songs rose in her throat. But it was harder now, like reaching for light through murky water.

Then came the loneliness. Friends turned away, weary of the girl who would not be tamed. “Why must you always sing?” They asked. “Why must you always dream?” The girl had no answer, only silence, and silence was what they wanted. So, she let them go.

When she became a young woman, the world told her to be serious. To plan, to prepare, to forget the foolish dreams of childhood. “What will you do with your stories?” They scoffed. “Who will listen to your songs?”

She fought. She tried. But the world was heavy, and her voice grew soft. Her stories became sorrow, her songs laced with longing. And in her loneliness, she sought love.

He was kind, at first. He loved her songs, her words, her wild imagination. “But let them be ours,” he whispered, tucking them away like secret treasures. “Why share something so beautiful with the world when you could share it only with me?”

She believed him. For he knew love better than she did, and he would not lead her astray.

But in the quest he wove around her, the world dimmed. It was cold beyond their walls. When she spoke of fear, he traced her cheek with his fingers. “This is how the world is,” he murmured. “But I will keep you safe.”

The girl, now a woman, watched the walls grow higher, the doors lock tighter. And finally, one day, she knew: love should not be a cage.

She left. But outside, her voice was hoarse, her hands empty. The stories had fled, the songs had scattered, and she did not know where to find them.

She searched. She loved again. But each love came with hands that sought to quiet her, to bind her to their world of muted grays. “Stay here,” they said. “Be happy in this silence.” And slowly, she almost believed them.

Almost.

Deep within, beneath the hush and fear, the stories still waited. The songs still called. And as more time passed, she understood: she was never meant for the mundane. She was never meant to be quiet. She was meant to weave worlds, to set her voice free, to let her stories take flight.

She was just afraid.

Afraid that she must do it alone.

And so now, this grown girl without the pretty little curl, stands between two worlds - the one she was given, and the one she must create. And every day, she fights to remember that her voice is still hers, that her stories still matter, and that the world, despite its efforts, has not yet silenced her completely.

Ⓒ March 2025. Beki Lantos. All Rights Reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, or transmitted in any form by any means without prior written permission of the author.