“A friend is someone who knows all about you and still loves you.”
― Elbert Hubbard
It’s been a few days since I’ve posted, but it seems my writing prowess has left me barren for the time being. I’ve also piled books upon books haphazardly, hastily written on a torn paper, waiting that I scribble off their name. Summer is just upon us, and I have much to learn, much to do. Recently, things have come, lingered longer, feelings slipping in, like ichor. As if breathing can, and does become difficult.
I feel sometimes, quite so naive. So, I’ll slap my knee, and choke back laughter. People will tilt their heads, scowls etched in quite brashly. Scribbles of worn lines across their forehead, eyelashes uncovering a gentle gaze, it’s aged wisdom beckoning I sit back, and watch. I sometimes rebel, and the dying gasp of a rebuttal echoes, only to volatilize in the wind. Every giggle, every cry, every smile, seems to have a story behind it now. And I want to know them. I want to be able to sketch their every detail, create a canvas, a chronicle.
But I’m left with a vacant mind, and an acquired sense of blatant disregard.
So, to finish,
I am this naivete girl.