The sun only sings for a few.

She’ll whisper gently in their ears, and even the most vacant hearts will warm.

For them, bliss cascades upon them faster than the rain, and childish abandon quickstarts their every passion. For them, keys of gold, keys of wood, and keys of iron form and fit into place. For them, beauty grows from the beholder, not from what is prized.

For them, no thought will be warden. For them, no fear, no feat is unconquerable. For them, time listens every once in a while. For them, youth is ever-lasting. For them, the new moon is but a new dawn. For them, the in-between is their home, their birthplace, their boundless world in entirety.

For them, the sun’s songs radiate boldly, and they are without reins.

But, the sun only sings for a few.

Only for the dreamers. Only for the believers. Only for the brave.

Only for a number of more titles to describe what the girl of several years ago—much like me, yet so very different—had looked up to. She wanted to be so much. She wanted to do so much. She wanted to see and feel and live so much.

She wanted the sun to sing for her.

She would dash towards the daffodil glow, scoring countless mountaintops, hoping that she could reach close enough to catch even a whisper of its sweet melodies.

She tried to craft keys of her own, but she got caught in the minefield, she chipped off too much wood, and the iron began to crack. Her wallet split, and her dear memories scattered across the dirtied floor.

She was held captive by her own mind. She cowered away from the harsh and nerve-wracking. Time escaped from her grasp and ran wildly away. She looked into the stream and wept until it flooded and the new moon’s tides took over. There, she lost herself in the in-between, shackled to the absence of stability and realism.

She tried and tried, committing herself wholly to the endeavor, no matter how false the promise appeared by the fruitless passing second.

Still, the sun never sang for her.

Nevertheless, she kept dreaming of it, believing one day it would, and remained fearless of the journey before it.

She took time to creep through the minefield, carve the wood, and remain iron-strong. She collected her memories once more and held them dear.

She escaped the gray thoughts. She didn’t back down from the lurking line. She made peace with the unbudging time. She saw the sun in the stream’s reflection of the new moon, and, for once, didn’t feel like running.

The new moon has arrived, and she waits patiently for the dawn, mooring over these sweet notes.

A warm renewal seeps into the early hours. Yellow breaks on the horizon, and behind closed eyes, the world brightens around her. Something soft and gentle wafts toward her. It’s a simple melody, but the voice is so pure.

At last, after 17 years in the trying, the sun sings for her.