'it's okay, don't bother. she will get used to it or to say, she has gotten used to it'.
They say, option spoils you. He was not careful enough, she became an option. Even before, he realized. Realization is what we (mortals) can come closest to what they call, enlightenment. After all, first (firsts of many) memory of her first realization that struck her (and left her awestruck). That she is not meant for beautiful things. Firsts are anything but forgettable. Father seemed rather upset towards the notion of his flesh, has begun to corrupt. If only, she had the ability to convince him. Maybe, she would. someday. She is hopeless. It's going to be a bumpy ride. She had to take charge of the wheel. She had to know what drives her. Disguise? Indifference?
Speaking of spoiling, what love is, after all, if one doesn't get one's hand dirty? Dirty sounds negative. Negative is as extreme as positive. Grey is mediocre, so is she.
Lying next to him, her fingers locked to his, with her lips tweaked (if you call it a smile), she seems as if... wait. is she thinking? Thinking of what? 'When was the last time, have we thought about nothing?', she wonders. After all, nothing is what matters.
What smell is this? She sniffs, gets curious. Does curiosity really kill? Was that really the curiosity that killed the cat? They say, it's (almost) impossible to know a cat even you boast having spent a lifetime with one. Whatever happened to good-old-days of spending (time) that lead to wasting (a lot of time). These days? We invest. We invest our time, energy, every word we speak, every thought that flashes by, followed by actions. We invest in people, things that matter. Things that don't matter, we lay our cards upon the table with the reluctance to invest. Hearsay is, this way we may succeed to appear as intellectuals. Aren't we supposed to appear like one? After all, humans that we are. Creator's splendid creation and his only irony.
She finds out. It's her lungs filled up with his smell. She inhales, pauses. This way, she can have a part of him inside her, even for few seconds. She is desperate.
Night crawling towards dawn, soon there will be a new day. Cuts her thumb while chopping onion for omelet. Endearing it is, to fall in the idea of being in love rather than in love itself. She is panting, coughs up the omelet bit. Maybe, she should tune in the radio. Maybe, she shouldn't allow the silence filling her lungs. We crave but can we stand the silence?
Maybe, it's the invisible wall that separates us. Separation, her own little amusement.
They say, option spoils you. He was not careful enough, she became an option. Even before, he realized. Realization is what we (mortals) can come closest to what they call, enlightenment. After all, first (firsts of many) memory of her first realization that struck her (and left her awestruck). That she is not meant for beautiful things. Firsts are anything but forgettable. Father seemed rather upset towards the notion of his flesh, has begun to corrupt. If only, she had the ability to convince him. Maybe, she would. someday. She is hopeless. It's going to be a bumpy ride. She had to take charge of the wheel. She had to know what drives her. Disguise? Indifference?
Speaking of spoiling, what love is, after all, if one doesn't get one's hand dirty? Dirty sounds negative. Negative is as extreme as positive. Grey is mediocre, so is she.
Lying next to him, her fingers locked to his, with her lips tweaked (if you call it a smile), she seems as if... wait. is she thinking? Thinking of what? 'When was the last time, have we thought about nothing?', she wonders. After all, nothing is what matters.
What smell is this? She sniffs, gets curious. Does curiosity really kill? Was that really the curiosity that killed the cat? They say, it's (almost) impossible to know a cat even you boast having spent a lifetime with one. Whatever happened to good-old-days of spending (time) that lead to wasting (a lot of time). These days? We invest. We invest our time, energy, every word we speak, every thought that flashes by, followed by actions. We invest in people, things that matter. Things that don't matter, we lay our cards upon the table with the reluctance to invest. Hearsay is, this way we may succeed to appear as intellectuals. Aren't we supposed to appear like one? After all, humans that we are. Creator's splendid creation and his only irony.
She finds out. It's her lungs filled up with his smell. She inhales, pauses. This way, she can have a part of him inside her, even for few seconds. She is desperate.
Night crawling towards dawn, soon there will be a new day. Cuts her thumb while chopping onion for omelet. Endearing it is, to fall in the idea of being in love rather than in love itself. She is panting, coughs up the omelet bit. Maybe, she should tune in the radio. Maybe, she shouldn't allow the silence filling her lungs. We crave but can we stand the silence?
Maybe, it's the invisible wall that separates us. Separation, her own little amusement.
