Sunday, 22 June 2008

When the moon painted its silver path on shimmering seas, she could only beg for silence. On warm summer nights, no one wants to go home. Yet home was where she felt safe. Protected. Where she didn't need to pretend. She'd spend a week exchanging promises with three different men, while secretly dreaming of a fourth one. She'd spent another week in utter solitude, seeking oblivion.

People climb high on the towers of your expectations, then they jump. Sex was an all-purpose currency, used to buy impressions of devotion; it was her ticket to places she wasn't meant to see; the means to prove her love or independence; tension release more intense than tension itself; a sound loud enough to drown the voices in her head; the fuel that fed her withering flame of self-worth.

She said, give me the strength to forsake all shapes of compromise. Sex was pleasure when it wasn't necessary. It wasn't necessary
when she didn't care. She didn't care only when it was pleasure.
She thought, how can we depend on something so vague, fleeting
and indescribable? If it's best when it involves the deepest core of
your mind, why does it feel better when the mind succumbs to
the raw force of the body?

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