Thoughts of a Violinist Giraffe

Hey. How are you? Still at ____ University, going through your pre-____? Have you been doing well, helping out at the ______ volunteer group? Have you been going out more, finding new friends, having fun? Has life treated you well? I'm sure it has. We haven't talked in almost nine months, there's a lot I don't know about your life anymore. But I'm sure your life has been going pretty darn well - I mean, I've had my hands full with some positive developments at school and I just can't imagine you not going through something similar. Life throws challenges and we rise up to meet them, right? Heard early on that you found yourself a new boyfriend. I wasn't so lucky. But then again, I was the one who wanted to break up, right? I guess I got what's due. At the same time, I'm still pretty optimistic I'll find someone worthwhile - and I would have to guess that you already found someone who's worth your while. We're growing up and g...

I am losing it - my thoughts are in a state of hypertrophy: explosions of whimsical scenarios playing out second after second. I can't keep up, I'm slowing down. I'm stumbling, stumbling, stumbling, trembling over this thought and that. I am seriously losing my mind to the disease of these romance-laced thoughts. I need to stop. I need to breathe. I can't keep thinking of these things, when it seems too inconvenient to bother. I want to be better - I've still got a life to keep sober. ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ The word was "hypertrophy". I was planning to replace it with "cancer" but I figured it'd be better this way. Cheers!

Nonchalant, imagines a moment where she's got her guns blazing,                           facing down illusory enemies                    that come at her every which way. She's high-tailing it to nowhere, door after endless door -                               open and close, open and close. She's burning through memory faster than a chain-smoker does cigarettes.              It's not until she stops to take a breath that she notices the young man sitting on the bench only a few feet away from where she's standing. Hesitation: dead weight holding her from considering a new way out of nowhere.                                    One step towards him and... ~~~~~~...

The wind blows, shaking him 'til he wonders if he'll be able to stand. He wraps his scarf tighter around the collar of his coat, a mask against the biting air. The city streets are not any kinder, pedestrians pushing past him just so they can get away from the kerfuffle that blossomed behind them, flames and smoke and roaring dragons included. He brandishes a blade, like a sliver of the very firmaments - he's done this before. He knows what he'll be doing, as he passes through like salmon up a roaring stream. The dragons roar louder, like a display of smoke and mirrors high-tailing their way to his side of the street, exponentially increasing confusion 'til it meets him at his feet. And all he does is wipe the dust off his shoulders. Time is irrelevant, as he sends the essence of the stars into their hearts, a supernova come to life, letting it all purify the putrid light emitted by the dragons' flight. It is never an easy thing to figh...

He prepared the best dish one could think of: pasta. Had it all worked out in his mind, like Holmes on his last stand, desperately making every effort to keep himself from making even a single mistake to the one thing that could seal potential passionate, burning love. The sauce, rendered to near-perfection; the pasta, soft enough to placate the critical mind; the venue, shady enough to keep the sun off their line of sight. It's all set. There they are, in the shades of trees, almost caressing them to  a near-sleeping state. He can't wait to let what he created speak for itself. And speak it did, as the sauce mixed with the pasta, the very smell beginning to discombobulate her into comatose lust - for the sauce-drenched pasta. Before they know it, she has finished the meal, once-starved and now thoroughly satiated. He is surprised as well, all things considered. Did he really make a meal this well delivered? ~~~~~~~~~~~...

         He opens his eyes, hiding from the ray of light that determine to drag him                         out of sleep.        But he lifts the blanket                            over his head,                 the warmth still holding                      him to the bed.            A few more minutes               to forget what it's like to be...                He doesn't feel a thing                     as he eats his meals                        throughout the day -     ...

Remnants of the rain touch the tip of her shoulders as she enters the teahouse, lowering her umbrella, ready to let it shake off the gloom that accumulated             on its blouse. She walks in, pensive, thoughts running marathons in her mind as she mechanically           heads to the counter.         She makes an order, the woman at the counter nodding,                      knows her, knows the pattern. Lightly she sits at a table far enough away                                                    from the door and everyone else                                                     ...