The Deranged Thoughts Of A Girl

When you have loved and lost, you never look at love the same way again. When you have hurt someone, you never look at love the same way again. When you apologize and fix things, you realise you will never look at love the same way again.  I have walked past people thinking about why someone did what they did and sigh loudly. I have smiled to myself in all places I feel oblivious to thinking about the scenarios I make up in my mind. How a bright red bag catches my eye and I immediately think about painters who are lovers who smear red paint over his lover's breast as he kisses her lush lips. How the sky so strangely orange one day reminds me about a friend and I imagine a conversation I would have with her. How a racing motorbike reminds me  about the incident that almost killed me and how when death looked me in the eye, I shifted from the thought of sheer terror to relief in seconds. 'I was so young, I shouldn't have thought like that' makes me panic and I quickly fin

He wakes up to the music playing in his room. He lies on his back and stares blankly at the ceiling. Then again at the decrepit music system he refuses to throw out. It was a gift, and for him it was a machine of memories. The actual owner was a lady, a music lover herself. The majority kind, the ones that love to listen but can't sing even in their dreams. Maybe that is why she loved Mark. A singer that lived in black and white until he met her. When Mark died, she stopped listening to music. She decided to give away the music player altogether, an action that made one think that she didn't want any remnants of his existence. But then again she gave it to him, her nextdoor neighbour. One can't help but think that everytime he plays his music, she dances in her hallway with Mark's soul. *You make me feel like, I've been locked out of heaven, for too long.* (Locked out of heaven- Bruno Mars) He looks over to the naked woman sleeping next to him. He doesn't rememb

I wake up from what seems like a long sleep. My body is too tired to move. Before I open my eyes, I stretch my hands to reach out to my bedside stand so as to grab my spectacles. It had become a habit almost, not allowing myself to see with my weak vision. It had worsened throughout the years. I can feel how weak I have become. My hands brush past the stand, wait it was a table, unfamiliar texture. I knock down something, which wakes up someone sitting on a chair beside my bed. I open my eyes, I can barely make out my mom from the mirage of her familiarity. She tells me everything is okay which clearly implies that it is not. I ask for my spectacles. She hands them over to me. The first thing I notice is her face. Dried tears. I caress my weak hands over her soft skin. "Why are you crying?" She burst into sobs of tears and fears. She runs out, leaving me alone. Is it right to leave a dying person alone? Dying. It doesn't matter anymore. I  still remember how I sc