dolorous interludes.

my only sunbeam through the shadows of mist.

And so centuries of heartbreak rain down on menfolk and we steel our royal chambers from vicious gargolyes that sneak the towers and clothe themselves in knight armours; they beguile the trusting and sweetened charm lays weight in golden heaving chests, eventually leaving the heartful in shambles and ruined crumble. Concrete cities therefore replace village simplicity, and as with every disaster or misfortune that bechance the unprepared and the unfearful, we learn: to strategise, to plan escape routes, draw up damage control warranties, and be on the alert. But what is lost perhaps is the spirit of spontaneity and of giving.

I hate witholding. i dislike feeling like all that i am prepared to give has to be controlled, or even repressed. But better a subdued small fire that radiates just enough warmth than a raging one that may easily blow north when unexpected winds of change befall perhaps. In all its vagueness that i sail through, i hold out my rubied treasure box; i may not see yet the journeys ahead nor the mist covered signs that dictate commonly travelled routes, but through the fog there's one thing that i see with pristine clarity- my hand that holds my rubied treasure box. out for you.

posted by voyeur @ 1/08/2005 03:24:00 AM