A Collection of Thoughts, Feelings and Late Night Rambles

She

She was real. She was alive. She was there.

Everyone who knew her thought the same thing. She was kind but not forceful. She was confident but not arrogant. She was empathetic but not pitying.

When she talked, people listened. As simple as that. Some people described her voice as melodic; some people said her laugh sounded like bells: some people believed her words hooked them on like drugs.

But nobody knew what happened behind closed doors.

She would finish a conversation. A promise to see them soon. A smile and wave goodbye.

And then she would disappear for hours upon hours on end.

Every time was different: once she trekked through the rainforest hunting for wild beasts, another time she climbed to the highest peak of a continent not on most maps, then she would grab a sword well gone out of fashion to partake in a battle that would never grace our history books, before she fell in love on the Eiffle Tower, later on she would hold a dying lover in her arms.

Those who entered her room described in as madness. She would describe it as heaven.

The books piled up in no order than anyone could decipher. Bookshelves long since filled and overrun. The smell of old books and stories filled the air welcoming anyone who entered.

Few would believe it. For someone so present, no one thought her hobbies would include embracing fictional stories and escaping to different worlds.

But that is what she did.

And who were they to complain?

If it made her so happy.