~Her words were my poison. I used them to consume myself.
Disturbingly honest. Painfully strained. Carefully penned down. Dangerously addictive.~
A journal that landed in the right hands and told a whole story with words, no lips could speak.
Two...
Anybody can be cute. It's not genetic. It's related to perspective really. Now I suppose that can be said about beauty as well but I'd like to think of 'cute' as a safer word. It's like a safety net. And at the same time it can bring a smile to someone's face. And somehow 'cute' holds more meaning to it than 'beautiful' does. I think when we find something cute it strikes us to be more than just what someone would describe as beautiful.
Everybody has some part of them that makes them the most adorable piece of the universe. It could be anything. Anything in the world, a goofy face, a smile, a laugh, the way someone groans in annoyance, the way they look at someone they love, the way they drool while they sleep... The same word can describe so many vastly different parts of life.
It's almost as if it's too small a word for the purpose it manages to achieve. I've tried looking for replacements and so far only adorable makes the list. Nothing else satisfies my need but that's my opinion. My worthless opinion that may differ from yours greatly my dear reader but tell me that you've never met anyone who forces you to search yourself for a better substitute for cute.
I hope my words were sufficient to explain my point. All I meant to say was that sometimes a word doesn't do justice to it's meaning and that's the case with cute, yet it has the power to make someone's day infinitely better, maybe I speak of just myself here but I don't think being called cute could be a bad thing.
P.S. I see you Chase!
I was smiling to myself. I imagined her biting her lip as she wrote this. Her bright eyes shining as her words inked the page. Her hair messily falling around her face, her fingers pushing the strands behind her ear gently.
And now she had succeeded in driving me nuts. I was up at six thirty reading her stupid journal. I read slowly, absorbing each word she wrote. Fuck she was turning me into a sponge.
I knew that there was no way this girl actually existed.
That was comforting and disturbing at the same time. How could someone be real and yet unreal at the same time? How could she exist and not exist at the same time? It was becoming difficult to keep reminding myself that she wasn't real. My imagination was thirsty for someone so pure. It would contradict my rational mind and I was desperate to be wrong.
I wanted to look at her and just stare at her for hours before I was able to hold her and shake her back to reality.
Her hands, I wanted to make them write for me.
Her eyes. I wanted to stare into the soul of a person so delusional and just watch reality drain her spark out with each word I spoke.
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