“Why do you do that?” he asks me, while I’m rinsing off my brushes.
“Why do I do what?”
“Why do you write things you don’t believe on the tables?”
“I believe some of them,” I say after a moment, watching the blue and red paint-tinged water circle the drain in almost-purple swirls.
“You don’t believe that one,” he says, balancing a tray full of empty teacups on one hand so he can point at the still-damp letters.
find the beauty and adventure in uncertainty and you will be free
“I’d like to.” I can’t look him in the eye so I focus on my paintbrushes instead before adding “Maybe someone will read it and think whoever wrote it must have believed it and that will help them believe it, too.”
“I wish you’d just believe it yourself,” he says.
When I look up he’s already taken his teacups and walked away.
About flax-golden tales. Photo by Carey Farrell. Text by Erin Morgenstern.