I wonder who thought of it, that person that invented Tissue that is.That person would be my personal hero.It's just tissue you may think.But for some,i'ts one of the most important item in the house.Actually, one of the items I cant leave the house without.
we use in many different ways. I use it for my everyday colds and flu. I can't imagine life without tissues.I use more tissue in a day than an average person would use in a week.So you see how significant tissues are in my life? I wonder what would I have done if I wasn't born in the era of tissue..As I continue to write this I think of how silly this is..talking about tissue..
your clean short hair, your brown warm eyes, your caring smile, our empty promises drift around us, the pinks and yellows woven into the sky we sit under, the glittering lake in which our feet drip into, the soft humming of music delights our ears, you hand upon mine as you prop yourself up on one knee and ask me to take your name, the perfect person, in the perfect moment but that's a moment meant for someone else, i don't want perfect, i don't want beautiful. You'll never understand that i want the apartment without heating, the mould scuttling up the ceiling, the broken light dangling down engulfed in glittering spiderwebs, the stick man drawings on the walls, your tired arms scattered with scars and traces of acne draped around my waist, the freckles littering your skin like the constellations in the night, your dark unruly hair that sticks up at the back sometimes, your honest smile, your promise to never promise, your exposed thoughts holding mine. i want to love and be loved in the rotting corner of the world
This is a roving captain infiltrating the fatherland. This is a machette guy on the motorcycle, sneering at a passerby. That is the magnet bride encircling the wounded knight. Infiltrating the warrior zone. Obeying the blowing winds and the hidden declarations of the motherland. “When something happens, seek me.” This is the musician wannabe limping through the foyer room. Guitar strings are pluckable. Doorway dwellers step inside. Crouch. Creep. Sneer. Outcast punks are aging before my eyes. Raging. Fueling inevitable heartbreaks. Oxidizing desires and lubricating their trigger-happy hearts. This is the fatherland. That is the motherland.
This is the vortex. I’m slipping in to the fourth set. Swinging like a villain in the porch deck. Recreating myself for the hundredth time. Establishing my rule through the scorched earth. Overcoming challenges like a prize fighter. Dwelling on my failures for the last time. Embracing pleasures, escaping measures, pushing back the Bible thumping forces. Wishing for another prime. Hoping for a little time. Skipping out on banal social cohorts. Things are shaking loose out of their foundations. Traditions crumble down to dusty block things. I’m in the vortex. I’m in the fourth set. Drawing on my inner child hope-sets. I’m casting visions and I’m and reeling in realities unforeseen.