Most stories really start from the middle. The beginning is a construct, mostly of a pedestal.
Endings were more real. But, too real to be true.
It was in the middle that the story lay, breathed, danced and sulked.
Plucking petals from daisies, was how she thought growing up would be. Staring up at the ceiling came a close, realistic second. Most people were drawn to her irresistibly, some never really understood the fuss. Few recoiled, in sheer terror of the unseen and unexplored. One or two stayed, they really couldn't help themselves. They had gotten to know her.
Spun with her very own fabric of delicious complexities, vulnerabilities and a loud, loud laugh, she truly hated winter. The winds could chill your bones and suck happiness out of you. There really was little merit in all of it, other than a deep appreciation of what summer would bring. And the daisies.
He swore he found her while reading the horoscope section. Of course, the story never made sense, but she always exclaimed loudly when he said it, and you lost logic in her radiant banter. Her favourite things were cheesecake, Heathcliff, rain, repartees and good posture.
Like most things, the everyday ate up the magic. Even the most special of us, could recreate only so much. We always thought, she had an endless reservoir. But, no one was really paying attention.
It began with little inflections. The eyes stopped crinkling with wickedness, just a smidge- here and there. The madness to the banter seemed almost premeditated, and if you really really heard closely-she rarely spoke in riddles anymore. They didn't really notice.
How could they?
They had painted a portrait of what she was like. No one ever approved of wayward brush strokes.
There was the incident with the boat- he attributed it to sea sickness. He was the first to lose her, and the last to catch on. Familiarity doesn't breed as much contempt as it breeds indifference and loss of attention to details.
I could go on and tell you, how it all really ended.
But, I won't.
You'll take away from it.
As all of us do. Take away from endings. Analyse it/ her dry, project wisdom, hidden lessons and hindsight your way to the start.
People are always picking at endings, desperate to find an a-ha moment ! Always, always struggling to find that one lose thread in the fabric which caused the tear. To use it as a shield against the madness, the next time around.
That's why, I can't tell you.
She wanted the madness, she didn't know it any other way.
Endings were more real. But, too real to be true.
It was in the middle that the story lay, breathed, danced and sulked.
Plucking petals from daisies, was how she thought growing up would be. Staring up at the ceiling came a close, realistic second. Most people were drawn to her irresistibly, some never really understood the fuss. Few recoiled, in sheer terror of the unseen and unexplored. One or two stayed, they really couldn't help themselves. They had gotten to know her.
Spun with her very own fabric of delicious complexities, vulnerabilities and a loud, loud laugh, she truly hated winter. The winds could chill your bones and suck happiness out of you. There really was little merit in all of it, other than a deep appreciation of what summer would bring. And the daisies.
He swore he found her while reading the horoscope section. Of course, the story never made sense, but she always exclaimed loudly when he said it, and you lost logic in her radiant banter. Her favourite things were cheesecake, Heathcliff, rain, repartees and good posture.
Like most things, the everyday ate up the magic. Even the most special of us, could recreate only so much. We always thought, she had an endless reservoir. But, no one was really paying attention.
It began with little inflections. The eyes stopped crinkling with wickedness, just a smidge- here and there. The madness to the banter seemed almost premeditated, and if you really really heard closely-she rarely spoke in riddles anymore. They didn't really notice.
How could they?
They had painted a portrait of what she was like. No one ever approved of wayward brush strokes.
There was the incident with the boat- he attributed it to sea sickness. He was the first to lose her, and the last to catch on. Familiarity doesn't breed as much contempt as it breeds indifference and loss of attention to details.
I could go on and tell you, how it all really ended.
But, I won't.
You'll take away from it.
As all of us do. Take away from endings. Analyse it/ her dry, project wisdom, hidden lessons and hindsight your way to the start.
People are always picking at endings, desperate to find an a-ha moment ! Always, always struggling to find that one lose thread in the fabric which caused the tear. To use it as a shield against the madness, the next time around.
That's why, I can't tell you.
She wanted the madness, she didn't know it any other way.
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