There's not a lot to say, for I'm lost for words at the sight each time. It feels like electricity coursing through every cell. Frantic, freezing, and utterly debilitating. And I wonder to myself, what is it that my sight beholds? Why is it that I choke for air? Is what I see fantasy? Or is it another one of those inexplicable things? Those which words aren't worthy of describing? Or is it a big frog stuck in my throat? RRRRRIBITTTTT!
I won't describe the contours, the curves, the waves, that come crashing, each time, pulverizing any, and every ounce of sanity. The voice inside shouts so deafeningly hard, that you can't hear it any more. It's not a screech. It's not a roar. It's a call that knows no language. A call to hold the eyes of another in yours. A call for those secret glances, that one would wish were more audacious. Those which make the rest disappear, so that I could be shameless as I can be. This way, I can see through walls. Through barriers, and through the cloud of "what another would think".
The only line that keeps ringing in my head is "I'll boombox Careless Whispers out of your window!" I wonder why I'd think of doing that, especially since the chap who uttered the lines got shot right up his Main Street. Maybe watching Deadpool was a bad idea.
Coming back to the soft, rounded contours that seem to flood my imagination from dusk to dawn, actually, only when I'm feeling crazy(which is basically all the time), the sight of my boss comes to mind. And then, I think I'm supposed to get back to work and not sleep for a year. Woah! Woah! Woah! I was thinking about something fantastically beautiful. How the fuck did that happen? The whole bossy scene?
But yeah, every time I witness the sight, I feel dyslexic. Arms and legs flailing, with me standing like a heap of er... muscle, bone and very little fat. Damn, ladies! I'm sexy! And yet I am reduced to vapor. Poof! Nothing more, nothing less. Just a thing I wish I could explain. Sadly I can't.
I won't describe the contours, the curves, the waves, that come crashing, each time, pulverizing any, and every ounce of sanity. The voice inside shouts so deafeningly hard, that you can't hear it any more. It's not a screech. It's not a roar. It's a call that knows no language. A call to hold the eyes of another in yours. A call for those secret glances, that one would wish were more audacious. Those which make the rest disappear, so that I could be shameless as I can be. This way, I can see through walls. Through barriers, and through the cloud of "what another would think".
The only line that keeps ringing in my head is "I'll boombox Careless Whispers out of your window!" I wonder why I'd think of doing that, especially since the chap who uttered the lines got shot right up his Main Street. Maybe watching Deadpool was a bad idea.
Coming back to the soft, rounded contours that seem to flood my imagination from dusk to dawn, actually, only when I'm feeling crazy(which is basically all the time), the sight of my boss comes to mind. And then, I think I'm supposed to get back to work and not sleep for a year. Woah! Woah! Woah! I was thinking about something fantastically beautiful. How the fuck did that happen? The whole bossy scene?
But yeah, every time I witness the sight, I feel dyslexic. Arms and legs flailing, with me standing like a heap of er... muscle, bone and very little fat. Damn, ladies! I'm sexy! And yet I am reduced to vapor. Poof! Nothing more, nothing less. Just a thing I wish I could explain. Sadly I can't.
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