Surreality

Introduction

A bonded group of blonde hairs huddled themselves around her shoulder blades. She always came here. Always sat in that same chair in the back corner. All I can do is watch from afar with my black bangs in my eyes and my clammy hands stitched against an angel white tea cup.

5/1/12
A young girl from a fair distanced table stared blankly at me. I acted as if I never sensed it. But I noticed everything. Every fine detailed coated my mind in a thick sauce that consumed every fold and every layer of my thoughts. You learn to notice all the scents and sounds of the world, like they took a fork and shoved information down your throat. That's what its like being blind. You're limited. I don't even know what colour looks like. But I enjoy the milkiness of a calm voice and the sharp edges of anger. The way an old voice cracks and ruptures and a little one has a voice like strawberries, so sweet and quant. But you may wonder how I'm even writing. I'm not. This is being typed out of a typewriter, its a new model that doesn't fill the whole room with obnoxious clicking. I memorized the keys. I memorize anything I can. But I only dream of one thing.
I dream to colour. ~

My blue eyes fixated on a dark brown stain on my white napkin. I guess the tea cup held hot coffee and while I was focused on this woman, I didn't seem to notice that it was overfilled and spilling off the edge. My lips reached the brim and I took a small sip, it was still hot. So I set it down on the small cardboard coaster and read another page of my favourite novel,
"How to kill a mocking bird".