Petals.


  The cold creeps in. There's that despicable pallor on your hands. Flashes of coruscating light peak through, and you look up, wondering if perished buds could ever bloom again. It isn't that simple.

  You've been waiting. Waiting for hours on end. Your physicality has slipped away from you. Your entity relies on the encircling world. The world is blurry without a trace. It could be in front of you one moment, foreign the next.

  You lie, in a comatose state. You're nothing more than a headcase, soon to be a rested one. You would tell them: How could one be strong, if they hadn't yet experienced weak? You were weak and you accepted it. It didn't make you any less. See, now this is what they fail to grasp. You didn't mind the synthesis, of soaking up the foliage. Feeling over form, as common Romantics would resound. The act made you feel small, that you belonged. In fact, it wasn't an act at all. You were right where you'd always dreamt of.

  Petals have shrivelled in your palm. All your colour is drained as the sun hides away. 'It's time to go', they whispered.
Every time I get stronger, while I'm waiting here for you / let the feeling take over, you've got nothing left to lose / tell me how you feel / why does it feel so, so real? when did it become so real? / Every colour, mixed together will make another reality

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A huge shoutout to my readers who acknowledge my efforts, and continue to spur me on. I can't thank you enough! The words I receive in turn are so heartwarming. To have come so far from a homemade blog back in 2011, to know that I have reached out to others - it fills me with mirth; say, a cause for my existence. I hope you enjoy paging through this blog, as much as I find repose from pouring myself into it. And don't be shy, I'd really like to hear from you!
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