Is this a decision I am bound to make consciously or, have the fates been drawn on lace with golden embroidery and a broken hand with a felt tip.? The anxiety is timid; timid like the left-over dew under the rising sun. The soul threads around the chasms of past disappointments but strong in belief of the glorious highs of yore. It lives a charmed life if only because it knows no other way. It however does keep in control its emotions, for an optimist within a pessimist it has always been.
Now, the train rumbles along oblivious to the happenings of it's passengers. Are they ecstatic over a promise.? Are they uncomfortable under a secret.? Maybe, quietly indifferent to the glances.
It looks from above, detached and attached, an umbilical cord not yet cut from its host. It ducks, it weaves, like a seasoned follower it rolls the idea within. Who chooses what, the traveler the path or does the path pick the traveller.? Questions flit like hungry flies over a rotting corpse but it isn't time for panic. At least not just yet.
While emotions hop from state to state, it changes its colors accordingly. Sometimes it is beautiful. Other times, just plain ugly. As it curses the turn of events and pouts as it sulks, it knows it wouldn't have changed anything given a re-do. It is afterall the most beautiful ugly one that I have come across..
While emotions hop from state to state, it changes its colors accordingly. Sometimes it is beautiful. Other times, just plain ugly. As it curses the turn of events and pouts as it sulks, it knows it wouldn't have changed anything given a re-do. It is afterall the most beautiful ugly one that I have come across..
