The truth about living

Here we meet again. I welcome you as my most dependable sidekick, and my most trusted nemesis. May you never grow happy and prosper. I have always found a certain difficulty in all my trials to fully grasp my understanding of you. You were never really graphic, and yet you always managed to jog my memory of all the times you've visited me. I can't describe them to anybody of course, even as a writer, you were always a touchy shadow I was warned not to talk about. My dirty little secret. I mean, how can you tell your mom that someone has sneaked into your room and held you captive in bed all day? How can you tell your friends you never leave the house anymore or that you can't pick up because you have been crying all day? How can you tell them about the ceiling slipping lower with every breath or the walls getting closer draining every ounce of vigour within you? How can you tell them about your drowning lungs that gasp for air like a fatigued horse after a long race or a pa...

I hate my house. I can describe it for you in a single word; detestable. A stranger would usually say, 'That's such a hideous thing to say, mate'. But I'm so full of people telling me I should be grateful for there's a roof upon my head, I've got a good bed to rest my shoulders in, there's always food on my table so that I don't starve, shoes on my feet, and clothes to keep me warm in the unfriendly nights of winter. They keep telling me I should be thankful for every brick that made up the walls of my house and for every grain of sand or cement that held them together. And they are right.. Half right, at least. That's exactly why I swallow the sentences that can get me killed by their judgement. That's me in a nutshell, always too anxious to slam doors or spit fire. But I still carry all the anger my ancesters could give me. I carry their will to break the chains that cradled me here. Most people don't understand anyway -I know it's such...

Ain't this how all fairytales begin? I'm pretty positive it's a story we have all heard before. A girl wanders alone at midnight, stars are shining low, and the moon whispers his early hellos. She has travelled from everywhere but here. She is skipping street after street, darkness after darkness when outcasted dogs start to roar. She imagines her luck must have ran out for it can't get any worse, right when it starts to pour. But finally, she catches the glimpse of lights gathering from an empty tavern into which she steps. She hurries to the the bar, and soon she witnesses the musty shell of a man with a wine glass in his hand. The girl thinks the man is different and sits at a distance. The man doesn't notice her for he lives in a world of his own; one full of flickering ambiguity and twingeing past. Music playing.. Bodies swinging.. Hands touching.. And just like that, they declare their heated dance. And then, oh boy! she smiles.. An enchantment she is used to...