As the days approach with the finalization of such an engrossing task and the final stretch, I have to close some books and begin writing the rest.
I didn’t want to leave this last story as some manic pixie dream girl for someone considering those damsels were made up in the mind of some of the most romantic writers of the past and merely a group of winged birds that take the souls of men in bygone text.
I wanted to actually accomplish something beyond imagination.
Something that elucidates a distinctiveness I myself can not even grasp at this moment.
I could construct a home with this treasured care and hope that one day it would invite in the lost wanderers instead of trying to escape on every fallen leaf with the lot of their darker brethren.
Maybe I could make sure I put up the proper epitaphs to attract those more like hearted veritable purveyors of quixotic rebellion.
Those more fiery in such fascinatingly controlled way.
Like a fire eater just swinging their fan as though they, themselves were made of water.
Like the vine that climbs on my thorny roses because one broken piece will never really dismantle its charm.
It can go anywhere it would like.
Or even better perhaps one of those ruminative gypsies could paint my house beside me, such a lovely shade of periwinkle and turquoise, because they said it matched my spirit and my eyes as we giggled the entire night away with fire side stories.
Conceivably, the new picturesque dream girl in lieu of her past should be unfettered, pious and ever-changing not some deity in a story that will be lost with the centuries.
Untidy Meditation : M(e.)
My Own Dream : Painting Bohem
Crazy Camaraderie: Andrew Bird – Tin Foiled