redroses117
There are stacks of books all over my room. My bookshelves are not lined neatly, the books are piled in teetering stacks all over the shelves and the floor. All over my room. The shelves are overflowing, piles on top of piles, leaning against walls and dressers, taking up more space than anything else.
I am quite bad at ironing. Whatever the material is always gets caught and kinks itself under the burning, steaming metal, causing funkily shaped creases all over, worse than the little wrinkles that were there in the first place.
Prosperous? Isn't that what everyone's supposed to want to be when they grow up? They'll all want to make a lot of money, and have kids, and have money so that they can go on fancy vacations and all of that. I don't really think that having a ton of money is prosperous. I just want to be happy. That's all.
Morality. What is the definition of morality? How do we know what is right? And if we can figure that out, why is that even the right thing? Who decides what's moral and pious and just? Who decides these malleable definitions? Is it God? Is there God?
The edge of the paper slid lightly across my finger, caressing and cutting all in the same moment. Such a sharp edge, for something so light and powerless. The thin cut begins to turn red as the freed blood races to the surface.
There is nearly always a braid somewhere in my hair. The beauty in something so simple, something that can take my astoundingly frizzy, puffball of hair, and make it into something tame, always surprises me. The pieces twist in and out of one another, becoming combined but distinguishable all at once.
It wasn't really romantic, when he kissed me. It was kind of awkward, especially after he asked me if it was weird. But it was nice. Being in his arms was romantic. The way he gripped me and held me close was romantic in a way that I hadn't felt in a long time. The situation was the least romantic in the world, but the kiss was romantic beyond belief.
Half of my hair is straight, the other half is curly.
Half of me wants to be spontaneous and the other half is scared of consequences.
Half of me loves myself and the other half doesn't know what anyone sees.
Half of me is in love with him, when half of me just really wants to get to know you better.
I'm broken.