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 (5)

If your road is en route to the highroad, I’m to the low road. Will we ever cross section? Will love ever come through?


And you stand at the crossroads
Of highroads and low roads
And I’ve got a feeling
It’s right

If your road is en route to the high road, and I’m to the low road. How are we supposed to cross section? Will love ever come through?” She air discouraged. He was no different to a vagabond making his way in a dense, in a so small as a clench of fist, to reason her making heartbeat. It was to her ring a bell interminably, the way Dickinson’s drum made a funeral in her brain. Every time it crossed her mind, the possibility of meeting the same end was nearly as tiny as expecting his ever enterprising a first jump into her loop of dilapidated arc.

And we are not going to stand the same road.” Her heart jerking loud, it gauged her yawping whys of turning the arrow of time to the soul if she knew it would leave her black and blue, if unintentionally. Not of words but of halseny. And stung hard her epidermis even in a covered of layered wool of his warming radiance. If rowdy never meant to be with steady, in abayence she strayed like a scud unnoticed. He would be undistorted, she would never be palpable, until his vision of her less pointed and gone nonchalant.

She decided to make a venture if it was not ascribed to stay put, she had been agitated to sway, but being insistent was not of significant help to lessen her mind numbing, she lost grips of herself for a matter of as ephemeral as bygones moments. Countered her spiteful assumption, the weather was so unassuming, as if to give her a subtle reminder, if she was to change her mind, for it to her soul’s marrow, she could make an upturn but there was something about to stumble; it was perhaps a premonition to take a lurch detour.

How you have been immolating yourself was still so rewarding to me. At least, those days, I could always cherish, those finite moments, I wish I knew forth how this would end, I wish no paradox consequences if I were to change the schemes, Tesla said of tiny possibility, and I could have myself readier. But still, our taken roads seem to not meet the same future ends.” If there was one thing she was terrible at hiding, it was to disguise her feelings. She had always known it was sublime by and large and he was too eloquent an actor, his benevolent and his being earnest was sure to win over the sullen soul. She had time made jostle in between her had been going detached, “Somehow, to let it shriveled, is the surest thing of knowing its significance.”

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.”