must the start matches the end?
this piece will surely defy that pattern.

'she's merely overwrought'

melodramatic much?

says you.

but they remark, not observe. they don't know how to look far inside, deeper than what's surfaced. but i don't blame them. how could they?

excuses do not justifications make. perhaps.

i think those two are inextricably linked, similarly sourced. from reason.

miracles are not what i sought, the want for those now have faded as stars on fairies heads had.

i pen this and my thoughts leave in ribbons, weaving themselves into a fabric of indeterminate colour nor shape.

' leave her be, she'll show her sun tomorrow'

as always.

que sera sera.

but that would have destiny written all over it, non?

if sighs are songs, i believe i'm Bach's best friend by now, i have composed symphonies of forlorn groans and longing whimpers.

transient would not describe it, i think. my current state of mind. nor is mercurial.

it's like this squash ball, keep bouncing from point to point, just that it's self-sustaining, the motions are powered not by any apparent blip on the periphery, simply as if it is borne out of chaos of cosmos's early days, it just materialise into being.

the existence of the surrounding clouds are by no means controllable, shifting forms and nuances, gloomy and brooding, onyx and lush but silvery and glinting, light and floaty, despondent and dismal goes jaded and blasé, transmogrify themselves into cotton candy pink and childish innocence, and still they do not stop altering.

the thing is, i do not particularly want them to.

I'd much rather have them moving than to see them still as the surface of a lake on noonday.

swirling means they're active, sounds of volcano's hisses warning lest ennui or complency sets in.

but the clouds hid thorns, and they scrap and tore at my delicate constitution. my fragile self is tattered and serrated, so soon after it undergoes another re-piercing.

how is it that seasoned i've been of ugly scenes involving annoyed out of sheer bewilderment people and their logical and subsequent reaction of said annoyance, and the fact that i've foreseen something quite parallel to it, hell, anticipated it even, that i still manages to be hurt?

is it annoyance?

i don't want to have to ask my self that question again.

fuck, its too exhaustive. the road is long and the circuit too winding. i keep finding myself arriving on the same spot with the same outfits and hands clutching worn out baggages.

and damn but it's too much to handle if i went on with the inquiry and the attempt to get all the acceptable answers. there aren't any. they all makes too much frigging sense.

so i'm skipping okay?

i'm skimming the froth and overlooking the mocha, because i've decided the ensuing headache post-consumption is not worth the bittersweet agony of the moment, at all.

so, yeah, i consciously chose denial.

and i think my mind's pretty made up over this.

the yell-spelling did it.

that's new.

and i thought i'm being juvenille by acting out and everything.