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| Representation of myself through someone else’s eye | |
| By chrismorton | ||||||||
| 07 August 2008 | ||||||||
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He is who likes to chase, dance around him with the pavement and absolute singular backwards. His peaceful warnings, the stubborn loneliness and the way that he rides are what made him the kind of person that you just want to feel. The long boots that cover his hair; the sharp nights that fall all around him when he sounds: And those clothes that he wears are so mellifluous: Fitted to perfection in inexplicable warmth. If you asked him, he’d tell you that he likes to be that person who themselves are proud to be of. And if you asked him whether he was alike, then he would tell you that we are all alike together, and that we are always sure when they come so close to you. Of course deep down he’s knows that he is only kidding himself. And that if you really wanted to know what he was thinking then he’d tell you, but it would only be to your own peril. He knows this, and this is why he does not realise the worries of optimism upon those who are not ready to admit that they are feeling what we all do. Once these things become apparent to all and ready then you can appreciate the statistics of this once so common rarity. And once those inhibitions have been cast out of the present statements of law, this is when his awe can reflect and absorb into the personality of your taste. I suppose what annoys me most about him is his ill tempered manner in which the extremes of his own nature are brought forward to break away from the reality of his true self. And those demonstrations of suffered independence are shown to me at times to single out those possible exceptions, the interpreted and rather large misgivings of self-pity. In some ways he supposes to trouble, in that trouble and canvas lift the edge from his shameful past. Not that shameful is something that I manage to wish for, and there again these obsequious lifting, the gimlets and sitting where a left of the happiness. We understand each other: that much I know. He said to me once that for sure of independence, we could find this difficult to bond and separate, when once before the closeness of our hearts was so distant. It was early, but there was no one to tell us this, later on of course it was too late. How life changes things, those escapes of denial and avoidance of the greatness of her and him together. Changes are often enough to set course for a different life of sticks and stones, why I know this already, I always did. Thank God for the trouble and blame him for success. Our life is set out before us. Why are the wrong choices made and how so difficult for the right line of thinking as a two. Who are we meant to be one with? Our true self is the reflection of antagonistic thoughts and this sometimes pursues the excitement but also helps along the failings. When adventures are trust of humour and deaths are in chase we’ll return to the beginning, where the ends of both places are told in admittance to failure. While we camouflage our thoughts, what we hide from the truth is quite more dangerous than these painted words. But words after all are what are left for interpretation. Of all things close to me, I know that he will never be as happy but my own happiness is a tribute to the two of where he once stood. The perfection for me is the self-denial and acceptance of all things beautiful. What I need is to remind myself that he is still available. For losing oneself is something that is dangerously realistic: But also seductive. The perfection for him of course is all this and more aspects of abuse to the lie of acceptance. Unfortunate really: a shame to headline my frankness and unable of course for the danger is always there to shatter all. And there was a time when I would have once misunderstood all of these chanting: A time when I suffered a purpose for what I had no intending towards. And in this purpose I broke free of all the statements of controversy and became forlorn to all those wandering templates that tell you to bring numbers and worries to eyesore. You see what he had hit upon been was not until after I had broken free from the noose of these considerable longings. But when I had been affected I knew for certain that I had no one but myself to thank. It just stirred a love inside me when I knew for sure that I had made the right choice, that I was not the only one. His arms, they are so much larger than my own. And his face, it is so much more oval. And when I ran my fingers through his hair on that one occasion I could see how the contrast to my own long and uninteresting strands of dark beige coloured the fields within the light of the foreign rain hirer. When his lips move they move in circles. Circles of honesty where the scorching of pen upon paper can become so much more powerful than simple words that fill that necessary silence. What I needed was to bond with that silence, and this, of all the things in my mind, is the only whither that comes close to any feelings of want. One day we will meet, it is faithful to the master plan. And when this day arrives I will see no longer if those castles still stand to repay my inability to take it all with me. What is necessary, forbearing, is to fill all holes with a colour that has surrounded us for centuries. For the problems of today are the problems of a destiny yet to suffice with the afternoon foreboding those inequalities of yesteryear.
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