Wonder

Some people have it in them. I seem to just be amused, delighted to revel in my small cocoon of wonder, and here I'll stay, age, wrinkle, wither, waste....

Why cry?

There's just something in my DNA rotting. There had to be. How can i enjoy the crying that pronounces itself almost everyday, ebbing on the edge of my nerves everyday, gnawing on my anxieties. Then i give in and all subsidies.

Wavelength

He used to cling to her through the night, careful to keep her near, suck her wavelength. Now he remains on his back unmoving, stable, close enough to have that mystical distance to miss him.

The horror of reading fiction

It thrusts the mind to keep track and delve into another's mind/ experience. A part of the mind sidetracked, evaluating what comes next, submerged in the words rubbing the page that becomes more sacred than those around, more intoxicating to live a life between the pages. And as always mesmerized by the mind who wrote it all.

Through

My head has that dull ache tunneling through, building a home for ants to march through, for worms to slither through, where is the asprin?

I demand to know who took it!

Respite

To simply melt into incandescent slow cooked rest smothered under warm covers during frosty weather...

Insane :)