the wisest are the saddest.
and the saddest are the luckiest.
ironic.

today during my 'drown myself in the childrens' section' period,
i look at the colourful works of the illustrators and the innocent writing of the writers, and wonder if it was sadness that triggered them to come out with such beautiful and perfect images.

i sat on the carpet ground, cross legged with a stack of book half my height.
the librarian stopped to ask me what i was doing, and i told her, research.
she smiled and before she walked away, 'you would put them back neatly, wont you?'

i realised why my mom did not stop me from reading books meant for 5 year olds when i was in upper primary. i didnt stop even though everyone laughed at me behind their JKR's

when i was young, these books taught me see life from beauty.
now they teach me to see beauty from pain.

these books and these writers teach children about life, love and everything else that makes the world go round.

they, like us, had seen imperfections and the ugly side of the world.

they might have gone through what the characters in their books had gone through,
left alone in the dark, left out in the rain, in the cold.
scared, confused, lonely, unloved, despised, neglected, or forgotten.
there is a reason why they understood.

but unlike the characters in their books, they are unable to write their own endings.
they try anyway.

the baby hippo gave the old mama turtle a kiss on its big gentle face, and smile its biggest pink smile, as they snuggle and fall asleep in the moonlight.
and i wonder what kind of love do they believe in.