A Romantic Epiphany
I wish to live a poetic life, nothing short of a strange, romantic epiphany, striking me at the oddest of times when hands are deep in chores and pen and paper are far from access to pen these weird ideas. A crescendo of wondrous memories invades my mind, making me trace the path of reminiscence and a strange consolation. Oddly, these past few sentences seem like a mesh of complicated words, filled with flowery odes to the cottage core visions that fill my head.
A cottage located up there high in the mountains, mellow tunes filling the air as the croissants bake in the kitchen oven. The lingering scent of butter and chocolate makes my insides rumble and my mouth water, wishing to pick up the brush and hand paint the boring, white sundress a bright shade of yellow. A girlish giggle escapes my mouth as I romanticize the little things and skip towards the door leading to the small sanctuary I created in the back of the garden, strewn with wondrously blooming sunflowers and daffodils, a light breeze picking.
I heard the call of the bird and, distracted stopped picking the flowers and gazed far into the expanse, trying to pick on the bird with its sweet voice. Alas, its sweetness escaped my gaze as I went back to stroking the petal of the sunflower, a strange reminiscence painting in my head. Those jagged memories are imprinted on the walls of a broken home. Of silent voices and vivid dreams built in the daylight, unbeknownst that they are but dreams left unfulfilled. A slight shake of the head and the flashbacks flow out of the memory window.
I prop my book, its pages fading and jaded, and inhale the age-old wisdom vested in it. The words in it spoke of a strange tale, of treachery and finery, of hatred and vices of humanity. It failed to invite my warmth and so, in a failed aesthetic, picked it up and tried to prop it against the backdrop of the sky, wondering over its aesthetic appeal. A fine one at best even if the words emitted more negativity than the picture painted in front of me.
The last dregs of coffee in the mug turned cold as my thoughts ran free. Should I let them hold the sway over my mind? Shall I not box them away as I await the approaching sunset and the sky turning those beautiful shades of burnt orange and fading light? My breath gets taken away by its beauty but maybe I would simply let my eyes glaze over and wonder. And wonder.
