Random update.
This is reverting back to a place for all my original work and non-Po5-related work. For more info, check here.
These are pieces that I to finish. Stuff that I have to move on. Will try to get on them ASAP. Some are for wonderfuldays_, some are not.
Five times now I've seen you by the door, your eyes forward as the world passes by like slides of newspaper articles behind a glass screen. I have to wonder at what things you see, what it is that causes the corners of your mouth to tilt upwards, your smile opening fully like umbrellas that unfold to the downpour of rain.
It is the same city. The one I have known all the years between then and now. Yet you sit in a box of wheels and sliding doors as if committing all the lines to memory.
I think of clumsily pressed blossoms in a dictionary, and how the paper is stained with the fragrance of the petals now smooth as satin under my thumb. The page is blotted with dark patches, and I wonder if the book is even yours to begin with.
It is so rare, these instances of stumbling affection that I have to check if it really is you and not some stranger who has broken into your things.
I have caught the slip-ups in your behavior more times than I actually let on, and yes, they flatter me, even if you deny them.
It is my little lie to live, playing the unwitting participant in this undefined affair, but unlike the other lies people live, this is a good lie.
This way we remain ourselves and the truth will never complicate things.
He believes that at the end of the day there is order, and that in order, there is purpose. A stone is one in a larger foundation, a river flows as only a fraction of a cycle. Nature is as nature does, and here, balance is achieved.
He has lived his life according to this, and because of it he has what many others strive for: discipline, success, a life that he can proudly say he worked hard to gain.
But a stone may move if an outside force shifts it. How or why, one cannot blame the stone. Similiarly, a river will stop flowing if a dam is built to quell it. Again, one does not blame the river. Nature is, afterall, as nature does, and it is in the moments where he feels hollow inside that he wonders at the brief chaos that has it's own purpose. Where he questions the order in his life, the order that leaves him with regrets.
And here he wishes that he had excuses. That he could be like the stone, or the river. There are some things, he has learned the hard way, that a man cannot set to order. The purpose of such things, he supposes, is not to torment, but to serve as a reminder that choices are choices.
He hates making phonecalls. There's always something about it that gives him the impression that everything has to be rehearsed or recounted, therefore implying that words such as "sure", "hm" and "'kay" definitely do NOT make conversation.
These are pieces that I to finish. Stuff that I have to move on. Will try to get on them ASAP. Some are for wonderfuldays_, some are not.
Five times now I've seen you by the door, your eyes forward as the world passes by like slides of newspaper articles behind a glass screen. I have to wonder at what things you see, what it is that causes the corners of your mouth to tilt upwards, your smile opening fully like umbrellas that unfold to the downpour of rain.
It is the same city. The one I have known all the years between then and now. Yet you sit in a box of wheels and sliding doors as if committing all the lines to memory.
I think of clumsily pressed blossoms in a dictionary, and how the paper is stained with the fragrance of the petals now smooth as satin under my thumb. The page is blotted with dark patches, and I wonder if the book is even yours to begin with.
It is so rare, these instances of stumbling affection that I have to check if it really is you and not some stranger who has broken into your things.
I have caught the slip-ups in your behavior more times than I actually let on, and yes, they flatter me, even if you deny them.
It is my little lie to live, playing the unwitting participant in this undefined affair, but unlike the other lies people live, this is a good lie.
This way we remain ourselves and the truth will never complicate things.
He believes that at the end of the day there is order, and that in order, there is purpose. A stone is one in a larger foundation, a river flows as only a fraction of a cycle. Nature is as nature does, and here, balance is achieved.
He has lived his life according to this, and because of it he has what many others strive for: discipline, success, a life that he can proudly say he worked hard to gain.
But a stone may move if an outside force shifts it. How or why, one cannot blame the stone. Similiarly, a river will stop flowing if a dam is built to quell it. Again, one does not blame the river. Nature is, afterall, as nature does, and it is in the moments where he feels hollow inside that he wonders at the brief chaos that has it's own purpose. Where he questions the order in his life, the order that leaves him with regrets.
And here he wishes that he had excuses. That he could be like the stone, or the river. There are some things, he has learned the hard way, that a man cannot set to order. The purpose of such things, he supposes, is not to torment, but to serve as a reminder that choices are choices.
He hates making phonecalls. There's always something about it that gives him the impression that everything has to be rehearsed or recounted, therefore implying that words such as "sure", "hm" and "'kay" definitely do NOT make conversation.