The clouds are tipped fiery orange. They're strewn across the sky like paint strokes of cotton candy. Sunsets are very beautiful-just so orange and pink and final. The last waves of sunlight cuts through like jagged knives. One last defiant burst of light. Dark wisps of cloud scatter like ashes thrown out after a fire. The fire is still burning, though. It hasn't died. Not yet. But Time will eventually leave dust on the flames and rust the wood.
Everything has to end sometime. Because tick tock, goes the clock. Even for the Doctor.
I see pink butterflies. Barbie. Yup. You read right, Barbie. There's a Barbie lamp on the desk, and how old am I? Ok. Not telling. It'll be creepy if you knew. Anyways. So. Barbie lamp on my desk, and, believe me, I'm pretty past the age of Barbies. But I loved playing with them. No, not admiring their amazingly skinny legs, dry hair,and their no-fat-whatsoever. I loved using them to live out my dream worlds. I loved brushing their hair and building lives for them. I loved creating a fantasy with happy things-heroes, villains. Heroes emerging from impossible hardships, getting their love and discovering new powers. Villains of a troubled past and struggling to maintain a clear sense of who they are. That was my hobby before. Now, I guess, I just create worlds in my head. I live them when I stare ahead. I see my characters come to life when I lie down and try to sleep. Then I wake up again, and it'll be that time again to rebuild my kingdom.
Pizza. Pizza. Pizza. Yum yum in my tum tum. There is the oil shining on the top, freshly glazed. Pineapple. Explosions of sweet and fruity. Meat. Duh. I love a pizza with meat. The meat is..meaty. Don't know where it's from, dont know how it came about, don't know who put it on my pizza. One thing I DO know: I'm gonna eat it. Lies. I'm not actually eating pizza. It's past dinner. But pizza is pretty good. The word itself. PIZ-ZAAAAA. Sounds outgoing. Sociable. Unafraid to scream out its name. I love the 'z' sound. Adds character. Seasons the whole thing, I reckon. See, I was trying to be poetic about pizza. But, really, my words are more of a smoosh of letters. I wish I could make beauty.
Time just gets away from me. There's a certain fear watching the seconds tick by. My heart skips every time the 9 turns into an 8, the 8 turns into a 7. Eventually everything gets to zero and suddenly the world explodes in your face.
There was so much. So much I wanted to be. But then I turn around and see the muchness has rusted and the dreams start to disintegrate.
But then. Surprises.
Perhaps...the world is better if it keeps turning.
To be frozen in an eternally perfect world...Maybe the smiles will turn painful and I'll forget what it's like to be truly happy. To rush and chase after the seconds and minutes and hours and days. Provides more cardiovascular activity. Meh.