Too too deviant

Some things are just-not-talked about; they remain, hanging precariously in the empty spaces of the silences between words, the ambiguity of things assumed and encapsulated within experiences - "I have done it before"...and "it's not the same this time." I could run away, withdraw, halt, terminate... I'm too fatigued to disengage, too old to be petulant, too wilful to subject to regimentalisation (if there is such a word).

Amid the defeatening silences the power of the imagination reigns unequaled.

How do I convince myself to return these dangerous almost exploitative rationalizations back to where it belongs. Hands up if I know what I'm saying. 'Cuz it does not correspond with my thinking, how ironic. Life is full of mystery and I don't want to die because of love.

Oh, how deviant.

(NB: The next entry about the short story 'Roomful Of Love'(Such a cliche title aye), I had it in the works for some time but reluctant to publish it as I had the notion that when I did, I feared the magic mystery and strong emotions I had while writing it would dissipate. It's like I'm sharing a part of my soul.)