They cant say I didnt try

6Anna9 · Post by **6Anna9** » 02 Aug 2007, 04:51

You love to like

You love dreaming although it never is a subconscious thing. The realities you create, the relationships you form and all to your happiness, but then dreams are like running rivers and love to change course especially without your permission, dreams can turn to nightmares and they scare but they never hurt, that is the safety of dreams, they are never real and can never hurt as reality can, because no matter what you try and do to stay in those perfect places, you will always awake but that never means you cannot live out your dreams.

You like the chill on an autumn morning, the light breeze of spring drifting in through the open window, kissing you as it greets you good morning, the winter wind that howls secrets at the night sky, the caresses the lazy summer draught leaves on your skin, hairs prickled up in pleasure before the season leaves you to be replaced with another as follows the cycle of life. For who ever came first; spring, summer, autumn or winter?

You love going for short walks in the crisp early morning when the sun is still hiding behind the hills, the cold icy grass numbing the bare feet, the trail of wet footprints left behind, the ring of the birds chirps akin to that of the alarm clock, then the rising of the glorious sun, the tingles that run up your back and around your face as the first rays of warmth and light hit.

You like eating plums, the sweet, bitter flesh soft against the pallet of your tongue, the taste of purples and violets breaking open in your mouth before spreading delicious tastes down your throat, the pulp melts away forming a liquid that spills over your lips and trickles down your chin, embarrassment is forgotten and only the sent, taste, sight, smell and tough of the plum is remembered.

You love to read, the smell of musky leather and old yellowing pages, words written with meaning, melody, the ink pools and flows down through the ages, travelling to places of pirates and elves, to the times of Einstein, Van Gogh, finding yourself lost in worlds of fantasy, finding purpose in those recorded lives of other and love in the relationships you form with each character, then the tales end and the book is closed although the stories live on in you. Too bad they have to end eh?