Ink Stained Fingers
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Lost At Sea
I dream of forests.
When all else fails. It’s definitely ok to wack out a bit of Disney. Soothes the mind.
I’m in trouble.
That unique kind of trouble. The trouble that can only occur when there as a complete balance of overwhelming happiness and fear.
My gut is acutely aware of the pain that could eventually result from something currently so beautiful that it has called upon an army of butterflies. They relentlessly stir up my insides. At points their brightly coloured wings seem to tire, reduce movement to a lazy occasional flap. Before long however they will once again swarm, causing a whirlwind of havoc and firmly reminding me, their host, that they remain there. It is exhausting, I loose sleep, I curse their existence.
They are waiting, these creatures. Waiting for the day that the crystal shatters and a thousand shards of broken promises, lost glances and obliterated hopes pierce their tiny forms. Then I will be left with the rotting, decaying bodies. Lifeless, useless wings will gather dust in my organs. Then I will yearn for them, I will cry out for the horde that once tortured me, and I will no that it is gone.
