Khekhekhe.

Teach me the art of conversation so I might have an excuse to ramble on all night.

It is a very sad thing that nowadays there is so little useless information. -Oscar Wilde

I misspelled conscious, and now it's too late. I have a subconcious but not a subconscious. I wonder what that means. I wonder if there's a difference. Oh this is so very, very unnecessary. I want cake, made into a house, on a boat. Then I'll blow out the candles and sing happily ever after.

For rain, look into heart.

Rain twinkles down in perfectly shaped droplets of hard, clear candy and pierces the orange glow of streetlamps. Shining drops descend like swarms of fireflies onto the earth, raising the musky smell of a monsoon gone wild and the soil gives off wave after wave after wave of the scent. This I want to capture in my palm and feed into my heart, so that I might turn inwards whenever it strikes my fancy..How simple it would be to satisfy that crazy craving, with a set of instructions anyone could follow.
Capture smell of rain.
Set free inside heart.
Look into heart whenever needed.
Smile.

Rinse, and repeat.

But for now, I will watch the battle between the streetlamps and the rain. Until, all of a sudden, the lights will be snuffed out.
Guess who wins?

Fade out.

He lives in the heart of his heart, and shares with no one the secrets that meander through the crevices of his life. Sometimes, just sometimes, when he puts his palm against hers, the secrets become her own. Without knowledge of why and what, she accepts this token of approval and swears not to betray. The map of their (uncertain) time together has been swallowed by tears and water, there are blots and blurs where there were cities and oceans once. They go on, though even the uncertainty isn't confirmed. Nothing is, nothing ever can be when you cross lines not meant to be crossed, and that, is what she has done.

But it is alright for now, the cracks momentarily hidden between their palms, like a flaw hidden in a delicate porcelain vase. Now it's broken, now it's not, there's no telling who will display the wrong side, bring out the very obvious mistake. There is a sigh of relief and an oath of apology.

The effervescence is gone, leaving in the wake of this loss a glowing, spectral hue. This translucent tragedy, with its beautifully tearing up halo, a victory with an unfulfilled w(hole) in it.

I walk away again with my heart in my hand. Exit stage.
Here comes the routine I know all too well.
I switch off my phone not because I'm afraid there'll be messages, that I'll have to talk. I do it because I'm afraid of the exact opposite. My strategy: reject before being rejected. Fuck up before being fucked over.
I hate my defense mechanisms.

Cause we've all been painted by numbers-

You said it was love
I said I'd like you to be mine

Two I love yous you say without really saying anything at all, and in a trail of "you too"s here's a declaration of undying com(passion), an eternal promise, a relationship made pregnant (?) by expectation. Until we miscarry. Our lovechild, this love bleeds away into the wind, as wisps of yesterday meet the disappointment of today and there is no puddle left behind. C02 does not leave puddles,no water to clean up, no mess, dissolvable stitches leave no scars. Love and medicine have come a long way, you can't see marks anymore, who talks about 50 years when 50 hours will suffice for the climax and Anti?
I am not a cynic, I am but a bystander objectifying the objectification of our affection, as love gains a tangible quality, a wholly new sensory overload. Too much too soon, move up, move over.

We've all been painted by numbers. Recreate a masterpiece, every heart will have a Sistine Chapel. 1, 2, 3, replay the downfall of Adam and Eve, then erase, move over because it's too intense and all you wanted was.. A Mona Lisa.

The music is tempestous, filling my ears and my head, behind my eyes in bright blue-green circles of rioting and chaos, enough to make me close my eyes. Enough to allow my head to willingly spin, a full, whopping 360 degrees of release into frenzied euphoric solos of the guitar and pounding bass sort. Gold lion's gonna tell me where the light is..Oh yes, Gold lion is.
Explosions.
Uh oh.
I want to push and shove anyone, everyone out of my room, this is my time, my space. This is my hangover to deal with, and who are you? (no wisecracks allowed, you don't get that chance.) What to do but sit and marvel at wrecked trains and crashed planes, whose little bitch are you supposed to be anyway? And while we're at it, won't you tell me what it's about?

Ans: Refer to paragraph 1.