amateal
Recipe for disaster
A hand touched my arm, and I turned to greet those cracked green eyes. "Is that all?" He'd narrowed his eyes a bit.
"No," I said, careful to keep myself calm, so he knew that I was serious.
His eyebrow raised just a little while the other remained in its respectful position.
If I hadn't been studying him during class then I would probably have been shocked that he could be so serious.
"You know what I'm going to say." I pulled my arm away from his hand.
"You know what I have to tell you. We would be a disaster..."
Then I'm waiting for a tsunami... "You ought to know by now that I don't care."
Respectable? Really? You want me to sit here and try to think of something to write about 'respectable'? I'M not even respectable.
DISCOVER
Uncover? Recover? Break. Win. Loose. Heal, and even Understand. You are here and your mind is an open book, a new discovery on ever flipping, sometimes torn, page. Be proud of that.
NOTICE: Small details in elaborate butterfly wings, swirling powder over veins where the overpowering color is stifled for only a time.
NOTICE: The glint on a rifle and the sweat in the palm of the hand holding it, like the chilling touch of fiery pain in a bullet as it rips through the body in a harsh kiss.
Don't follow routes. Make them. And anywhere you are is where you are meant to, be it a sandy trail following the beach, a dust road under the western sun, or a forest path beneath the moon.
The sunlight shimmers on the narrow path where I am traveling. I've never known where it goes, but it doesn't much matter to me. I'm always here. Walking but never moving.
Paths are ever-changing. It doesn't make any sense to make plans. Keep your pen steady and write without the thought that it takes to breath. This is a route that I will always take.