The most uninteresting things in this world run like the longest hand of a clock. You stare at them for an hour and they won’t go away. Sometimes you don’t stare at them, you feel them like a sharp knife with poisonous blade piercing through your existence and leaving a hole. The uninteresting things in this life steal your breath second by second.
She is alone. She is always alone.
The people she sees they’re like the waves that kiss her feet only to leave seconds after. Why is life so full of goodbyes? If the world stays the same for every revolving of a clock, the world could have been a lot more easier to live in. No changes of hearts. The wind blows, we breathe. There will be no birth so that there will be no death, man only lives.
She wishes. She is full of wishes.
She wishes she can paint how she feels about him like how Van Gogh painted the Paris skies. What she feels for him is beautiful and there is no great artist could ever express. Sometimes, she wants to kill herself for wanting him. No. She wants to kill that feeling. Shoot it with a bullet straight to its heart. That feeling is a viscous animal that needs to be silenced before it turns into a monster and eat her alive. To love is both a beauty and a curse.
She might be in love with him.
His comfort is the soft pillow she hugs at night. The four yellow corners of her room bear witness to the tears that were shed when the dreadful feeling was realized. He knocked on her door. She opened. But then he already left. Time screws everything up when it should have placed things in their right order.
She’s alone, wishing, loving and blabbering on and on.