“Prose is architecture, not interior decoration.”– Ernest Hemingway.
Atrocious were the ancient wounds.
Jasmine breeze under moon light deepens his scars,
His soul enjoyed horrible pleasures,
The uneven guilty ones at dawn,
Just never mind me, it will be over soon,
Once my weak heart dashes into bits.
By then, she will be hugging another,
hugs that praises shallow guilty pleasures.
Sick of guilt, fears, and lousy you.
A passenger once told a story of his trip around the world. They started from his home town where he was born naked. The first trip was via an old ancient railway train that took them for a three thousand miles’ nonstop tour. Passengers used to eat, drink, get drunk and have fun around the roof top pool. The train stopped at a sea port where the same passengers took a sea cruise that lasted fifty-one days. The cruise stopped at seven main sea side cities where the passengers where welcomed and invited for a traditional festival. Enjoyed the stay in the city center where shopping was a pure pleasure. Foreign exchange was somehow chaotic. But finally, it went well.
Passengers waited for the bus at the last cruise in a city with a lot of greenery and fashion designers, not mentioning the wonderful perfumes and lingerie factories. The bus drove to the last trip at an international airport where there was neither check-in counter nor they had to show their passports. The route to the boarding gate was just open and empty. A young blond lady welcomed the passengers guiding them to their seats. The take off was a smooth one. The pilot and the crew were so nice and welcoming. Sushi and white wine were served.
Guess what, he added: the trip was free and the ports, railway, and bus stations were gate-less.
Well, that is not at all possible.
It is, in an illusion; the passenger murmured…
His life was a chain of predictable changes. However, direction matters. Adding a bit of caramel to the chaos and suppression anecdote formed the charismatic city where he stayed idle, homeless, and somehow contented.
At seven, he became addicted to caramel, his mother told the school teacher pointing at his neck. Awkward, thus uneven personality, constantly infusing his temper.
No way novice professional abandoning drivers’ seat; he cries. Hell, nothing but a deemed illusion of rooted scars.