Even cigarettes start sleeping, off into the pot of gold.

Hmm…

dang.

Not good. Spasms of emo-ness. Not good.

Constantly denying myself of the truth, the fact, is so easy to do. Accepting is always a bitch.

 

I…really, really don’t know what to think anymore. I don’t want another re-run of this whole saga. Enough with the sequels, and just goddam end the story already.

I want a new tale to be unfolded.

Cliche much. But holds true in many essences.

 

I want to pick up that particular book. The synopsis looks intriguing, promising, inviting. Yet, it comes with a pretty hefty price. Dare I flip open the pages? Only to find someone had already left a bookmark in it. So I put the book back into the shelf. Can’t have it.

And so, I go home. Once again, I pick up my old book, ruffled, dog-eared,and a little bit torn. I’ve been through it’s pages too many times. I fling it away, only to pick it up again, for it holds fond memories of reading it. But as I pick it up from the floor, once more, another hurt has been added to the book.

And guess what? My bookshelf, has only one more book slot left. Only one book.

 

 

 

 

Which one shall I put it in?

 

 

p/s : Happy Merdeka people. I don’t really care.