Cruel Intentions of a Writer.

Cruel Intentions of a Writer

I want a wedding celebration worthy enough too make the gingerbreadman comfortable. I believe that if I truly aspire for it, I mean really believe it, I can have a candyland wedding. I don't know if, I'm all to sure why I think; candyland. Maybe it's the innocence tied with the idea. The meaning I hold dear to the word and ideals that are congregated with the word; candyland.


I value innocence. I know that. But, that seems weak to me. Weak in the sense of value and depth, or lack there of(I'm fine with being weak for the idea of relentless pursuit.) I have always valued innocence. Innocence personified by women. Innocence personified by life. Fun and simple. Innocence just seems right. It's why a person can't help but smile when they see a child clutch on to a balloon on the subway, as if this balloon was meant just for them. Just for them. But, they'll lose interest soon enough when they see something better, that's why we have two hands. There is always more than one choice. (A person needs to have a chance to better grasp it.) The choices are endless. The impossibilities are endless. Innocence dies out. Interest dies out.


That's where innocence comes into play with my life. I cherish it. I hold on to it. It means a lot to me, It's something I don't obtain in myself. At least not genuinely. I try to find it in others; friends, family, and girls. I try to discover it--in girls. I try to invent it in them, if I can't find it. I gloat about it when I get it. I hype it up like a good promoter of a bad movie. At least the trailer to the film was captivating. I have realized lately, I invent and recycle ideals about the girls I meet. Most men have a type of girl they look for. They have a certain criteria for the girls they want in their life; passionately speaking. They want their girl to have a certain look. I don't care much for physical beauty. Just moonlit eyes and a real smile. Whenever I find that, I don't want to let it go. I feel as though I can't. I take off my watch and forget about time limits or endings. I find nothing wrong with them...


I instantaneously fall in love. I fall in love. I don't go head over heels. I go crashing, in a bursting flame of passion, head first with my heart glued to my fucking lips. I will love a girl till the oil dissolves. Then and only then, will I pick my watch up off the floor, brush off the dirt and dust, blow off the cob webs, and wait. Wait till the clock strikes 11:11 again, and it happens.


It happens.

I smile.
She smiles.
It starts all over again.

I use scripted words of a real life fairytale.


I rediscover some pretty eyes, I invite a beautiful soul; absorb the innocence. I fail to determine fatal flaws that will clusterfuck my brain till another broad comes along, when the one before her is nothing more than a chapter in a book, that is; my life. A chapter that was great, but the new one is better. The newer, the better. Like any good book, I think the writer behind mine is brilliant. The author couldn't make any more dramatics for the main character; filled with trials and tribulations. He must be an alcoholic, a self loathing, disgust. A heinous person, filled with emotions and disillusions. That mimics 'strangers' far from his life to protect the creativity of his writing; that is my life. His Cruel Intentions for his episodic underdog story is causing unbearable obstacles filled with too many choices for me. But, as long as he's willing to write my story, I'll live my life. My life is filled with repetition and routine, the new chapter in his book shows laziness and lack of leaps. Take a leap of fate; Let me take a leap of fate. I want to take a huge chance on fate and without the blink of an eye, end up in Candyland.

(Disclaimer: The author of my life, is not in any kind of reference to G*D or Jesus Christ.)


Fin.