The night stays young, the gentle breeze lifts its fingers off my face, the touch soft as silk. Relishing the tender caress of the night's warm moonglow on my paled and wrinkled hands, the lightning bolt hits me like the ball hits home. A story evolves.
It's been months, irrevocably. The hardly present speeches seem to evaporate into the atmosphere. Global warming, perhaps.
Too long, the words left unspoken. Heartburns, reluctant rounds around the track. Beating hearts going faster, nausea. That ancient looking tree-house, just around that track.
Reminiscent memories flood past my 16 age-old mind. January what? I don't really remember, the short-term memory really fails me. But it all started then. Seas of blatant backlashes seem to subside with mere glimpses and glances.
The distances fell apart in an instant, constructing barriers between the two sides. It's one step forward that will kill them all, it's that tiny movement that will repeatedly crush you under your own feet.
There are roving eyes all around; and no movement of the lips will escape their staring eyes. The lips quiver, not sure what to say. The scandalous pair puckered, ready to explode into myriads of colours.
This is what we call the over-obsession with metaphors and the like.
Can you figure out the story?
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