It must be madness. The way she’s letting things devour her. The way she let things out, came in. And the horror of it, she was attracted to things that no matter how she draw and find transparency, it is never righteous and remains cloudy. She clings to it and soon makes hard for her to get unchained. That no matter how she paints her walls in white, will always appear grey.
Perhaps she’s too reserved in laying herself down in the elysian fields and desires to keep the affliction close. Close enough to tear her down. Close enough to define her and close enough to maker her feel a little less cold. Or maybe she’s too silent and scared that someone is almost scaling the wall she’s built around her. But maybe somewhere along the way she’s ready to face a beautiful chaos. Go let it burn, let her dive into the horror story because maybe it’s the chaos that will let her find where she belong.
And her mind wanders, thinking about something that happened just like 5 years ago or something that happened 24 hours ago or something that may happen 10 years from now. Her mind is like hurricane, distracted. Maybe full of beautiful yet wicked thoughts. It’s 1AM and her mind continues to wander that the hands that wrapped and held her body were bloody. Now she can’t tell if she will bleed or get stained.
Did she ever tell you to wipe your hands after you shut the door?
It’s finally the time where she has to choose between what is easy and what is right. She’s trying and learning to love the sea from a field of weeds. A sea just where she could flee liberately, innocent and lily-white dandelion. Embracing the sharp salty smell of the air, and the vastness of the horizons bounded only by a vault of clear and untroubled sky. Enough to make her feel little but free. Enough to make her realise that she’s not a seed of weed but sowed for wishes. Tell her she should stop breathing the same air and she’s got to deal with it. Otherwise, time will come the air will get shallow and she has nothing but to stumble and fall on the vine.
Woman, listen. There’s just something I want to tell you. You are beautiful. Remain fragile and bloomy. You are distinctive and precious. Keep your petals radiant and fragrant. There will always be temporary things that are heart-stopping and these will only make you wonder why happiness never last. So cusp them in your hands and let this story end. The winds shall blow it all away.
The Untold Roaming Spirit 