A small, tan coloured book, completely unadorned. The binding is worn and aged, the pages slightly tattered and curling towards the edges. Several small notes peek out here and there from between the sheaves of parchment and pieces of torn blue silk mark places within.
Saturday, 17 January 2015
Wishing. Wishing never has and never will be reality. I wish for what was, what could be and what I have left behind. I wish for the friendships, loves, connections, hopes and dreams that once were so encompassing. Again though, they wane. I return, I want, I hope, I try, I believe and then, I deflate.
Wishing is not reality. It never was. It never will be, not for any of us.
Celestia posted @ 00:18 -
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