that novel

i thought i would sit each day collecting clever phrases... to use in the brilliant novel that i would pour my whole being into. turns out being a real writer, isn't that romantic. it was going to be dramatic. the beautiful story of a daughter after her father's heart. the fact that he is sleeping right across the room from me, is hardly romantic either. i would write about his imagined history. my imagination, not his. now i wonder if my imagination can even stretch beyond my fingers. let alone create a whole novel with actual characters in actual settings, situations with meaningfully mundane conversations about a life that is not so romantic.

R0.99

who determines the price tag of these exchanges that happen in the middle of the night after the bill has been settled? who owes whom? whose morals/values sets the bar for such things i have been reading (and hearing) a lot about the curse of young women who are willing to 'give it up' to any guy who will buy them a KFC streetwise 2. this often intrigues me because some men don't realise that they can get 'it' for free anyway. found myself on the wrong side of such an exchange... when i was out with a young man (a story for another day).. i suddenly felt so self-conscious standing there with this undeniably younger, hotter man... i wondered what people were thinking... were they judging me? were they judging him? i imagined the looks of disgust

the walking dead...

living with the walking dead is not easy...
the anxiety and stress has a way of seeping through...
no matter how thick your caring skin may be..
when it reaches the bones... deep down..
you can't help but pray for divine intervention...
for a miracle...
a permanent solution...

Book o' love

Words cannot even begin to describe or do justice this beautiful thing we have.. Thank you for all the memories. Loving over a sandwich on a balmy spring afternoon..... We spoke for the first time... I'd been circling you... Didn't know if you'd noticed... Until that day... We stood in your kitchen... Oblivious to the voices, the bodies milling around us...

Eating dawn for breakfast

the sweet taste left in my mouth after, sipping, dipping, immersing, basking, in the gloriousness of rising suns.

Biscuits and Presidents

Once upon a time, in a valley far away called Mistletoe Ridge... There lived a young, eager lady named Biscuit. Biscuit had dedicated her life to searching for all things good in people to quench this perpetual thirst for pleasure that possessed. Always going out of her wet way to accommodate eligible suitors... Until she bumped into a delightful young president while trawling for bargains at the nearby market... His willingness struck her as rather sudden... She often dreamed of partnering with a suitable president. But she never deemed it possible, that a humble maiden such as herself would be afforded such privilege... Until the day she met and shook hands with the president...

meandering minds

been trying to calculate, work out exactly how it happened that i ended up standing here right now... could it be the result of a simple wrong turn taken before time or maybe did i wait too long... because right now i am meant to be in a space where i can see... but i seem to have created this smoky, impenetrable maze that i can't seem to break away from.... here i am... lost even to me... i somehow allowed my mind to wander too far from the source... so what do i do now?