Seeing you

Lead to my misstep

I faltered. I was not prepared. 

Naught could have been more pleasant than your sudden appearance and the subsequent greetings, which, though abrupt, was.....

It's harder to recover than was expected. Beratement would not help. But at least, sense did not depart for long. 

So now I'll finish what I started- write off imaginations and indulge in their whims no more, being kept in leaves and bound in ink. And who is to say, the stone will be  thrown at me again? 

'True, I talk of dreams, which are the children of an idle brain'

It is really silly- no, more of outrageous and I ought to be ashamed of myself! What kind of pubescent immaturity shows in that! Utterly disgusting and ineffably revolting!

I thank the heavens Sense has returned and turned away the afflicted idleness of the mind poisoning its host.

I cannot believe it myself. How I have speak of endurance! Goodness me, Mr Brain must have really departed for a time. Good heavens.

3am ramblings

I can contain this no longer. Is it possible that every atom of my being should crave for a thing so temporary? One might think it silly; I dare say it is silly. But can not the mind direct itself? Why should it be guided by some other thing not of our own being? Parting is rather sorrowful than sweet when it should have been neither. 

Those eyes are not cordial, nor kind, nor warm. So why do I make it so? Why not leave them as they are -cold, partial and monotonous? Does my mind perceive wrongly? 

I would I could find in my heart that I am what others perceived me to be- indifferent, nonchalant and rather unfeeling. My word! I dare say I do, rather than being of a sentimental creature whose inclination to strange habits of the mind only results in wasteful hours of daydreams. It has accumulated to the extent that grey bands and pledging hands will always be significant. 

But there are so many stars, never shy of your presence. 

And you- you're the galaxy of the brightest stars. 

There will be so many more stars, never devoid of your presence. 

I'm rather young, and have much to learn. But it cannot be denied- I'm just a speck of dust. 

In other words, an insignificant nothingness. 

Apt

“If so, my dear, I dare say you will meet again some time or other; do not be uneasy. It is ten to one but you are thrown together again in the course of a few years; and then what a pleasure it will be!”

Mrs. Morland was not happy in her attempt at consolation. The hope of meeting again in the course of a few years could only put into Catherine’s head what might happen within that time to make a meeting dreadful to her. She could never forget Henry Tilney, or think of him with less tenderness than she did at that moment; but he might forget her; and in that case, to meet — ! Her eyes filled with tears as she pictured her acquaintance so renewed; - "

Would you like a handkerchief?

"No, Sir. Thank you very much," or so I would have said. But instead, all I managed to croak out was a pathetic sounding "no". Well,

Romanticising is rarely beneficial but the mind poisons itself beyond recovery. It's mad, insane and knows itself to be so. The sickness is irrevocable. It's horrid. It's torturous. It's pathetic.

Well, at least, tomorrow, I'll have a break and have a little coffee with the bestie at Starbucks which has become our second home, almost. I cannot wait for  tomorrow evening! 

Dialogues from within

When you are by yourself, do you ever think of the world? About the vast galaxies beyond our reach. About the the happy moments being celebrated. About the solemn moments being observed. How often do our thoughts wander far away from home? How often do we think of masses of people walking in the streets, working under the Sun, or asleep in the comfort of a shelter? Rarely. 

The wooden floor creaked with every step, some panels threatening to give way with slightly louder crackings. Even in the dim light, it was clear the room's only ornaments consisted of coats of dust and a few hundred paintings. Some on the wall. The proprietor sighed and made his way to the last painting at the end, certain of his resolution. He was certain, yes, he was certainly taking it down.

"What are you going to do?"

Her. It was her again. She tugged gently at his sleeve, her eyes widened pleadingly.

"Alright, alright, not today. 2 more days, and that's it, alright?"

She nodded and her eyes wandered away to the painting.

"It is so beautiful."

The corner of his lips curled up, as if to smile, but his eyes were devoid of happiness.

"Beautiful, yes, but unreal," he replied. But his words held no effect, her countenance remained gay, partly wistful. Resigning, he added, "Though, of course, the subject must have been quite like his portrait. The artist is very well-known for his art."

"Too well known for this one. He looks as if he is looking at me so pensively it is hard to look away, you know."

"After all, what is art if you cannot connect with it?"

"His hands- they are almost as if ..as if..-"

"It is a famous portrait, my dear."

"But they are so real."

"I beg to differ. If you know the subject,-"

"Oh! Will I know him? Do you think I shall ever be acquainted with him?"

"I am afraid that is most impossible and improbable."

"Such a pity! When this painting is gone, what shall I do? What shall I do, indeed!"

"Why, you will no longer trouble me!"

"Don't always talk so! But pray tell me, why shall I not be his friend?"

"My dear, strangers do not concern themselves with little ones like you. Now, now, don't be so downcast. Is it not the portrait you enjoy?"

"Isn't the portrait based on a model?"

"I did not say it was not. But the portrait- it only shows you what is pleasing to be shown. In fact, this portrait is perfection, did you not think so? That is because it was only meant to convey perfection. But the subject is not. He is just like you and I and anyone else, really. Inside, we are all a little defective. His defects..they are just not seen superficially."

"Still, I would have like to..¬"

"It will be just another painting that fades away from your memory when you stop frequenting it."

"I don't think I ever shall- how can I forget those dark eyes that the stars can't outshine? They watched me sometimes, I think 4 times, I dare say they wandered towards me."

"But galaxies await them- why should they stop to pacify you?"

"And I could feel it, you know, the gentle movements- oh, and how, I was so close! I could feel the warmth. I would like to feel it always, but you are taking it away and I will have it no longer."

"And there is that. 2 more times and this space will be empty. Don't fret over it, lass. It's not the only painting in existence."

They only wandered...towards the dark and dingy storeroom at the corner of the delusional street, and often found themselves lost and duplicated, in the gallery of memories.