Some things lay broken in a desolate heap near the bin. They reflected the light off a smile or a more frequent frown and then slipped into silence and darkness. And no one cleared the mess away. After all its always easier to shout and scream than really do anything about it..right?
So what if the whole house burnt down?
No. Obviously it doesn't matter.
And so they told me that this was not my place any longer and the heap of broken things grew dangerously higher. Piles and piles of long battered thoughts and hopes and esteems.
I am so happy that i have an option. But why revel in that?
Why not revel in the talks of friends and the happiness of being pampered silly?
What am I talking about? The language of the escapist? And of dark clouds that are limited only to their own heads?
Going...going...gone.
And the pile of things i was ranting about...that was just glass. What relationships today are made of.
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