Everyone’s growing old and I’m growing cold.
|A:||If you like someone you like 'em, and if you don't like 'em you don't like 'em. The thing is you always know.|
|Me:||That's a silly thought. It can't be as simple as that.|
|A:||Everything is that simple. But we make a big deal out of it.|
|A:||I always start conversations with younger people.|
|R:||Oh you're right, like with me. Actually, you're more like blah de blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah|
|A:||THIS ISN'T A CONVERSATION IT'S A MONOLOGUE|
Hello, Love. Will you tell me which way I went? Am I sitting on a rock in the middle of the ocean waiting for him, am I in a forest lighting a campfire, am I screaming on a mountain and hearing my own echoes? My mother tells me nothing of love except realities. I have to find the ideals, the passion, the forgivable ignorance through stories they write and stories they dance and stories they sing. And after all that, I can’t help but think these ideals are realer than realities.
Hello, Love. How do people snatch onto the difference between chance and fate, snatch onto the string of a balloon floating and floating, a balloon finding that the sun is prettier than the people who were holding it? So it slips, it slips my grip. You found me someone who whispers to me fate and another that whispers to me chance, but I find myself screaming on a mountain again. Do I take chance or fate?
Everyone seems to be waiting for you, I think as I close my eyes and hear his soft even breaths behind me. Yes, everyone seems to be waiting for you, Love. I open my eyes to find my fan blowing its breaths and tell myself not to forget that everyone includes me too.
Puns. I can appreciate puns.
Leave me an anonymous secret in my ask box. I’ll turn it into a story for you.