July 22nd, 2010

I sit here and write, a synopsis if you may,a brief summary of the plot. One of great depth to be unraveled in such a short phase. A story which has no suitable beginning and no definite end. Whose to even say this story is meant to be told. From certain views it can seem that it has been unraveled and the point is void, and why climb the mountain if you never realize you're at the top. Never breathe in the rush of the altitude, to realize all that you've gone through to get to the insignificant significance where you are, never learn from that journey, still naive from the endeavor, not even opening you're eyes to accept that you've survived the hardships. It is not my story to tell, but even though that may be, and I never came to witness, I know the story all to well, and it effects me more than anyone would ever care to imagine. To start at the beginning is more than I could bare, and it may be the cause of great bias, but I'm the one whose sharing, and take my tale as you may. I even wish to skip many chapters maybe one day going back when I'll admit my own strength and take it head on. But for now I forget, using all my might to tear up those pages and try to start at my beginning. My chapter starts at the end of another short story, never given its full time to play out, but I wrote the alternate ending because it suited me best. To be selfish one might say, but some stories were just never meant to be written. To say my story started as a classic once upon a time would be true. Or at least in my eyes it would be perceived that way. For myself the story was one fluid movement. A tale of magnificent smiles, gentle caresses, whispered talks into the depth of the darkest hours, the worries of not getting in right,of going to fast, of getting hurt, the metaphorically over used butterflies in the stomach, the prolonged goodbyes, with the next hello not to far behind. Then the door was revealed in which the past stories were placed, and the key was not yet formed to lock it behind. As I tried and as I wished I could never help form this key, and as the metal was shaped as slowly as the seasons changed it was abruptly shattered by the force of much heat, and even to this day, that key has not been formed, but one can always hope. The words carried on, and the story became longer and the passion became deeper, the gazes became longer, and the more that was poured out, the more that found its way back into the soul of the other. The attachment grew and it became hard to pull away, the kiss became deeper and it became harder to stop, the words spilled out and it was hard to hold up the barrier, and they all came out. Sure there have been tears, mini scale to those of the epilogue, and the arguements have been fewer for our stage of script. The actors fit there roles so well that the story will never come to an end, the love will never grow old and the butterflies will never die.



So I found a tripod in my house. I've determined in shall be useful to me.