It’s rare, for her.
She lives in a self-created world under the constant pressure of having to do things on her own. It’s not a feministic streak and no Paul, Ayn Rand didn’t say so. It’s to do with the fact that she seldom has had a different set of choices. So, now to give up on it all, and being led doesn’t come easy. All she has to do is sit back and things get taken care of. There’s this other vague thing-her presence in your world. She yearned for it, and one fine day just walked into it, as a perfect culmination of a dream long cherished.
And so it is.
Their moments were scattered.
Shells and the beach.
Is it really about moonlit nights?
Do they make it perfect?
Let’s stay put.
She has walked into a new state of consciousness. A state of subliminal anarchy. Things are revealed and she keeps on reminding herself just that. She keeps on asking you, often enough. It’s not difficult to believe, just that words scarcely ever are futile. Even that single iota makes up for a lot of evenings unspent, times untouched, eyes unfelt. She wants to live these moments with careful deliberation. Slow. It must feel better when unasked for. Wanted though, in good measure.
It’s all been done.
A long-winding road.
Sweltering hot, explicably cold.
Would you have it differently?
Risk the loss of a different meaning?
She wouldn’t either.