Of dreams.

The pendulum swings our time away,
the clocks ticking endlessly.
Watching.
Waiting.
We are enclosed in our fairytales.
Cocooned by our own imaginations.
Our timeless fantasies.
The limitless thoughts of our fictions.
We'd live through.
The blood that taints our skin,
the cuts that burns so deep.

We'll live.

Don't we always?

One of those rare times where my mind has wandered off to a place far from reality.

I love books. You can chain me to my room with an endless supply of Starbucks, a warm jumper, a few bean bags, with the rain tapping against my window, and let me read for days. I think guys who read are extremely voluptuous. It's just something about it that intoxicates me.

I've been dying to watch Adam and Charlie St. Cloud. Armed with a box of tissues, and a shoulder to literally cry on. Though it doesn't really seem like it, I'm a total sucker for romance novels and films.

Maybe it's cause they portray love in such a way, it seems surreal. They set me up, and force me to make-believe in romance.

Cynical as I am, I do believe that someday, there will be a Prince Charming for me. Piercings, skinnies, book lover. Who dances. And talks in riddles and rhymes. Who sings. With sarcasm that stings like a bitch. Humorous. Unafraid to voice out his own opinions. Finds a thousand million ways to say I love you.

God, I was supposed to be a dreadful, irate, analytical, relative person. What is wrong with me.