Abstract life at present, and a little further

The words have been hiding from me; they went away with feelings better locked away than felt. This acquaintance took me by surprise at the beginning, now not so much; and as I remember the day when a small group of girls tried to smoke a cigar, being unsuccessful to even light it, I come to think that some things are for the best, and we get to see that in time.

I find myself, along with the rest of the world, not far away from the second month of the present new year; a year that promises more than the  novelty of 366 days instead of the usual 365. Changes and options are approaching in an unusual speed, most of them mostly good. Others, like vampire love stories, tire me, for they have been the same too often, for too long.

And as the sun sets and the breeze gets colder, so do I, submerged in this world of mine so filled with double binds.

I was talking the other day with someone who told me he believed it was true the world was coming to an end this December. I suppressed my laughter; his intellect (yes, we carbon based entities hold huge amounts of contradictions in ourselves) helped me do that. But I don’t want to talk about the conversation. I want to think while I write… Anything that I could truly want to do or to have in case the world was truly coming to an end, is not something I have any control over. I can’t control it, and this bothers me, me, the person who can tell if her orchid has been moved 1 cm from its original place. No, I will not tell you in specific what lies in the deep bottom of my heart. At least not in this post.

So, I guess life is like a book. Why do I always create a simile between complicated things and simple things? Who’s to know? But well, a good book can describe water in a bowl, simply that, and marvel its readers while at it. A life and a book can be composed of simple things, but nonetheless be meaningful and worth having. Both are unpredictable and give you surprises, and not all the time what you wish to happen will happen. It’s neither good nor bad; it’s just how the story goes…


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