molten emotions crumble like papier mache at the thought

have you ever lived one of those lives?
A life where you want nothing to change. where you want to remain suspended in time. Like a pair of "fluffy dice hanging like testicles from your rearview mirror"? Have you ever lived a life where you wanted to remain forever, like a flower pressed for decades between pages of a book, like the archives in the documentation centre?
Im living it now.
It isnt a happy life.
Its filled with black and white and gray. And purple and pink and red.
Are you happy now?
Maybe yes or maybe no?
Maybe a lil of both.
Sort of like a haiku. A haiku thats also a conundrum. Aha, a haiku with a secret identity. If i wasnt feeling so "i dont know" and "maybe" and still "yay", id have space to feel enchanted. Ah, the haiku like complexities of life. Theyre so teeny, theyre so big. Theyre so absorbing, theyre so not. Theyre so indifferent, theyre so concerned. Theyre so wow. I love haiku’s. I love finding randomity in the most random of things. I love the way my life is now. The insanity, the randomity, the ‘thinkableness’ of it all. The days are vast, they are fleeting, they cant be held down. Like an elusive lover who never calls but keeps you waiting and wondering. Ive had a lot of those. The elusive … who kept me waiting. Ive had a lot and ive had enough. I now write beautiful poetry of love, of romance and lost merely to give birth to the seed of torment and rumours within everyone, within them all. who is it for, is there are a him? My tell-tale fingers cant keep a secret for long. So they will tell you…there isnt. Teehee. My poetry now, is like everything else. Random, so random. A bohemian rhapsody written for me, just for me. Maybe its a love poem for me, for my life, my heart, the love that resides within me to be preserved till "The One". If there is one. Ah, the all perplexing one. Does he exist? Do I want him to? Or do I want to flitter my life like the lazy yellow buttefly that languidly rested on my shoulder today? I like the latter. Living for ambition, for solititude, for dreams, for me. rather than for an individual that doesnt have my blood flowing through his veins. Am I over it? Not yet, but i will be. Now I lose myself in the depths of the woo hoo, of the random, of eensy weensy black ink that is scattered on numerous lined pages, of the way my body cant stop moving, not even for a second, of the way my heart and my head and all of it races faster than it ever did before. inquilab zindabad. where did that come from? freedom? research on freedom lying within the yellowing fragile pages that are the babies of the documentation centre? perhaps, perhaps, perhaps. thats what everything should be from now on. a perhaps, a maybe, no yes, no no. nothing at all, but a yellow butterfly waltzing in the sunny sky.

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