To be born in a first-world country is a privilege in itself.
We’d stop bickering if hard work was praised far more than so-called “talent”
In hindsight, we never really notice we’re presently living in “the good old days” until it becomes the good old days.
note to self: never be afraid to plant the seed you won’t be able to eat from.
The aches in my bones continue to grow louder with every tick of the clock. What once was a silence is now a daily reminder of a permanence that can never be attained. Somehow there’s beauty in that. If you so decide to look deeper.
What lies closest to the lack of freedom is sometimes inability.
The table, wrapped in cloth. The coldness of the beverage sweats off the glass and into knitted fabric. Splotches of water can been seen sporadically on the table.
The clanging and cheers of the nearby people fill the air in celebratory fashion. It seemed to be a joyous night for many.
Across, a woman sits before me. Wearing a striking auburn dress, her collarbones naked and her shoulders exposed. The light from the chandelier above glistens off of them.
She wore an evident smile and her laugh stood out among the crowd. We’d exchanged banter that had encompassed the moon. All while our feet affectionately pecked each other throughout the night.
What a dream.
We’re all just much older kids.
What an interesting novel. I highly recommend it to anyone in life questioning their own inner dilemma regarding morality and the relationships they have with others. Certainly a gift for those in their 20’s. It contains a number of silver linings that would most definitely benefit long term (and prevent any inevitable regrets). Fowles’ story is coupled with far too many insightful bits that it left me questioning absolute authenticity. Again, highly recommend. I don’t think you’d regret it.
Bliss with a little bit of chaos amidst love. Caressed with sunburnt ignorance under the guise of romance. Left with wounds that fail to close.
Your song, which I can only imagine would sound like an open flowerbed in the dusk of summer. The kind you’d often find yourself frolicking in where the air is clean and the petals stretch multiple miles, far outside the reach of vision.
Your song sounds what a tropical forest smells and some odd way taste like, with all its fruit and rainwater bliss. The kind that is rich and flavorful. Wildlife and all.
Your song, to me, is what I’d often catch myself playing on repeat to the end of all my days; a wonderful tune.
I’m a strong believer that we, as people, won’t really get it. From the time we can conceive our own thoughts to the last puffs of the air we breathe. No matter how established we consider ourselves, there’s always hints of ignorances within us. Life is given to us without much of a blueprint to see what works and doesn’t. We can try, but for only so long. Ya know?
the moon clocked out over the horizon so the sun could kiss you when you rose from deep slumber. neighborhood birds watch from a distance in admiration of the beauty that stands before them.
I’m looking forward to the days I can wear my lifetime through the wrinkles on my face, feet and hands. Visibly showing the journey that is gradually etching itself onto my body in today’s time. It will be a poetic story indeed.
I’d bargain that there’s such thing as emotional travels. When you’ve gone far out, there’s no way in finding your way back to place you once were. Metaphorically-speaking of course.