(no subject)
Check me out!
My shinning moment. *le sigh*
I met a boy, a man who singlehandedly puts all before him to shame. Aden is a friend of John's who is highly attractive, sophistocated and something I have been looking for, exactly what this girl needs. At twenty six Aden owns a portion of some club down town, his father being some sortof high roller who spent practically everyother weekend in Vegas until his unexpected passing just three years ago. Tall, thin and blonde, Aden is built like a Greek god you read about when studying mythology.
Once I become affected it is hard to know where the boundaries are, as in where my feelings begin and where they end. Perhaps some candlelight and a little red wine would help the situation: throw some light into the shadowy areas and make them a little less blurred, distorted.
Is this what a junkie feels with the stuff coursing through his veins? Is it like an infection of sorts which weasels its way into the plasma and starts sending signals to the neurons that it needs More More More? How can I end this addiction? Furthermore, do I even really want to?
No.
Tell me where to start the fire and I'll bring my blowtorch.
This is not a denunciation, just a stream of conscious. The emotions involved are too intense to deny them: it would be like refuting the necessity of oxygen or water or solo piano suites in the wee hours of the night. It is only a recognition because once the drug gets pumped into the bloodstream, sometimes there is no hope. The body starts shutting down and the brain along with it. My fingers have words in them but I lack the willpower to channel them, to coerce them onto the page - my minds keeps steering back to him, his hands, blue eyes and lips; sofy kissable lips - and form some valid meaning.
My shinning moment. *le sigh*
I met a boy, a man who singlehandedly puts all before him to shame. Aden is a friend of John's who is highly attractive, sophistocated and something I have been looking for, exactly what this girl needs. At twenty six Aden owns a portion of some club down town, his father being some sortof high roller who spent practically everyother weekend in Vegas until his unexpected passing just three years ago. Tall, thin and blonde, Aden is built like a Greek god you read about when studying mythology.
Once I become affected it is hard to know where the boundaries are, as in where my feelings begin and where they end. Perhaps some candlelight and a little red wine would help the situation: throw some light into the shadowy areas and make them a little less blurred, distorted.
Is this what a junkie feels with the stuff coursing through his veins? Is it like an infection of sorts which weasels its way into the plasma and starts sending signals to the neurons that it needs More More More? How can I end this addiction? Furthermore, do I even really want to?
No.
Tell me where to start the fire and I'll bring my blowtorch.
This is not a denunciation, just a stream of conscious. The emotions involved are too intense to deny them: it would be like refuting the necessity of oxygen or water or solo piano suites in the wee hours of the night. It is only a recognition because once the drug gets pumped into the bloodstream, sometimes there is no hope. The body starts shutting down and the brain along with it. My fingers have words in them but I lack the willpower to channel them, to coerce them onto the page - my minds keeps steering back to him, his hands, blue eyes and lips; sofy kissable lips - and form some valid meaning.