The wistful eyes of a little girl gazing up at the mounds of beautiful fabric was continually filled with pure delight as she walked past the Traded Goods store. As birthdays grew on her back, she found that the more she gazed at these folds of glittering, shimmering, graceful threads of fabric, she became increasingly happy, continually in the state of pure euphoria. Euphoria, that is the word that described it all. The ecstasy, thrill, and shiver that runs through her all seemingly grew from this one simple delight. This delight grew into a near-obsession as she became increasingly fond of her folded glitter and elegant yards of fabric. No one believed this undying love; no one knew how much it truly meant to her. Not one could could believe her true fantasy; and yet, not one would look into those same wistful eyes that were etched with the reflection from the glitter, shimmer, and grace of it all. Her eyes revealed it all. No doubts could be drawn, no indecision of purpose could be seen emitting from the golden source of her honest and true eyes. No one cared to look.
Endeavoring hard, she picked pennies up from off the dusty path, wiping them off as to show them their value. She saw their value and what they would eventually do together-as a completed whole. Painstakingly, she watched her small leather pouch grow with the number of adopted pennies. Every day she walked past that same shop, and took the time to glance longingly towards the one thing she really desired.
Years passed, and childhood fled, but the love she had never failed, never faltered. Soon, not only one purse was filled with the outpouring of growing pennies, but seven were perfectly filled with countless pennies; she knew she was nearing the end.
Finally, the day neared at last. She anxiously packed away her purse of collected pennies as she walked the brightening roads to the Traded Goods shop. She was hopeful; she was courageous; she was filled with brimming light that shone from her unsure eyes. Solemnly, she walked to the folds of glittering threads and put her hand out to meet the beckoning fabric. Slowly her hand moved towards the fabric, hoping just to feel the burning sensation she so longed to enjoy. She couldn't touch it; she couldn't bring herself to lay a dirty finger on the perfected intertwined fabric. For hours, she sat and ached to feel the silk between her fingers. Staring at her hands, encrusted in dirt from continual labor, she began to wonder why she ever saw the glittering fabrics-beckoning from afar. She tried one more time, hoping to conquer all; hoping to drive away the fear that caused her palms to sweat, her heart to race, and her eyes to ignite. Nothing happened. Slowly drawing her hand away from what she wanted most, she realized that she could not touch the fabric. She couldn't finger what lay before her, not because of her own fears, but out of pure respect for the fabric. Slowly, she walked away from the dreamed she never gave up, realizing that threads wanted softer hands of skill rather than the ruff hands of a clueless, dreaming, peasant girl.
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