Song of Solitude (6)

She wasn’t sorry. She was meant for glory.

There’s no make believing
The sound of the wings
Of the flight

, of a dove

“I have been crafting stories of not meant to be, but it is so deceitfully heartwarming. We fall off steps the same gravity, but we hover different skies. I never thought this could be painful, but so painfully exalting. “ She flustered by the thought of enterprising and of expanding, the possibilities were endless but her brazenness so firmly grounded; like it was where it was supposedly cultivated but she knew full well it was to no avail because at last their taken roads were en route to the different brinks: she was of low, he was of high.

She traveled backwards memories, if she were given a chance, if there was anything that could reassure her, she could tell without slightest hint of hesitation. But it could turn upside down, “Why do I have to involve myself in the game if I’m not even qualified for it. We are both of the same moral compass, but of different intensity, quite significantly.” She throwed up the sponge at last, “Juliet is just plain gullible, and Romeo is only taking her love for granted, he knew she could turn him into a romantic hero.” She continued rewinding the scenes, for insofar as her scattered brain always failed to count, had been of great nursery ryhmes. She acted out a foil to his being a statue, she chose to believe to have been trapped in his luminous nobility.

At least, she could nail an “Ozymandiaz” dignity and wore proud her tranquil composure as she refused to have been carried into his bandwagon, “I’m not drown, if seemingly so, I can’t swim at the first place and I’m a coward.” She abhorred from her possible deteriorated ends, if entitled to account for her adjourning. In remembrance, she found herself but left frantic.

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Song of Solitude (4)

If it’s real what I’m feeling
There’s no make believing

—-

As if time being his unusual garrulous self, to speculate, to make her played with her prejudices, so she conjectured he could be off the realm of his whimsical non sense, his played things sensical. He could be in both worlds if it needed be, but he probably went offbeat. It went the reverse to her, now that she realized had been going absurd, she air confidence it supposedly juxtaposed at last.

The thought of many typicals excited her the least, if it meant it would be an abrasive truth, she wasn’t capable of handling the facts revealed itself forthright, in a manner demeaning her had been so compliant devotion towards her heart abound. It was contemptuous for gaining, losing was last entranced her mind. But what could she have done if the destiny displeased of the end? She air frighten but trust her modest yet mean-spirited inner voices.

You could be all the bets, but you stand way aloof, it is like I’m watching myself from afar. It is so polar we are, but so similar.” She reminisced him once played his ace, now it was world-weary, even not per se lost his grace but too cautioned of losing to pretense, to what seemingly resemble in a glimpse. “I don’t believe in forever, everything is evolving, but in you, at least it adds colour. It may stay solid, or by the time sordid.”

She lost counting, not because of bewildered but impassioned as her nuanced mind nitpicked his holy inclination. It left her mentally thunderstruck. How long could a person be so insistently distant himself from spelling the language of profanity? Was his mind too afraid of making a slip? She believed, it was just happen to be bound, but it seemed to her, his obsequious won over, if he ever bent himself, she wouldn’t allow even when she herself wondered.

Song of Solitude (2)


If the world isn’t turning
Your heart won’t return
Anyone, anything, anyhow

She wandered aimlessly and wondered the beauty of seemingly pleading for attention night, in her cubicle, statued. The last time she felt so unsteady was when he left her without goodbye. He didn’t return the hello she once gave to him. But it was a nuance, now she buried it in her brain ‘ancient’ part. It was almost surreal to her. It was the evident epitome of guilty pleasure. She pondered, pondered hard, it should be her mind controlling her heart. She laughed at herself, hard enough to make her fall off from the chair, if so made believe. He played out a great protector. The sky was empty from the window peek. The Romeo probably forgot he had to greet her or got lost in his way of meeting her. And there she waited, waited endlessly, hopelessly and helplessly. The sky wasn’t any better consolation, served her no consolidation. If anything, mourn intensified. She let loose of what supposedly detached. But she couldn’t seem to do it with the soul she had been standing staring the gloomy skies so hazily, so keenly for. She waited and waited still, “Romeo must be so preoccupied.”