What If Our Life Threads Bind?

Chapter 19.

The word 'Ritual' is a funny explanation; A cover to a lie-nay, a justification to keep doing things that don't matter if they make sense or not. Rituals are repetitions; compulsive actions that humans call as habits. Easy to continue and difficult to let go, especially bad habits like letting people in or getting attached with random people in our life.

I was on the couch in front of the TV, my eyes glued to the words my pen wrote on a diary instead on some guy trying to crack jokes on New Talent Show on the television.

Love. What is Love?

Its a mandatory dessert after a hearty meal.

An apple pie on a Sunday afternoon with sugar, a pinch of salt and a pair of hands whisking together into a dough.

Love is like digging;

A search of originals among all the remixes

On a beautiful morning curled up in a couch with a diary in your hand, musing.

Its the time we spent together when heaven was pouring on us last night

Its the feelings I want to share with you-memories that I want to cherish- because it feels so right.

I always had a thing with metaphorical meanings and comparisons; so addicted to it that I could mostly say or write things with metaphorical emphasis and people around me won't even have a clue what I am talking about.

'An apple pie' like love is made when added with sweetness, a bit of turbulence as a pinch of salt. 'The two hands whisking together into a dough' are the two people putting up with each other. I sighed, satisfied with the meaning it gave. I always liked the idea that things and people are not limited to surfaced causes and behaviors, but something much more deeper. I have always been a fan of romance and chick-lit but mysteries have always been my personal favorite; a guilty pleasure.

My face lit up with a smile as I finished writing my poem and my sisters around me, ignored the way I re-read it over and over again with a smile growing bigger and warmer; the words making more sense to me-each time.

A habit. I thought and stifled a smile. It has been a habit of mine to write poems in front of a switched on TV that Chloe and Lila, and even I-myself were well accustomed to to ignore the joy writing about love gave me and getting nervous about posting it, on an anonymous blog that I had made for myself, as if announcing my love for someone.

Well, it wasn't love exactly-or so I convinced myself. But just an essence; a feeling of want.

That's the thing about habits. It creates a dilemma between a ritual and a guilty pleasure. Between a ritual of writing poems and writing poems about love for a guy I had only known for a few weeks. I sighed, finally facing the TV, trying not to ponder.

But I couldn't resist. My brain kept playing the roll of Austin and I dancing, in the artificial rain. I took a deep breath and forced myself to think about Samuel and whether Austin and Robbie were finally successful into proving Samuel into a fraud to the dean.

I had reached my house exactly at six. The light to the dining hall and to my sisters' bedrooms were switched on. I had cursed and tried to climb up through the pipe, up to the bathroom attached to my bedroom. Realized that the windows can't--shouldn't be--broken and climbed down. Used the back stairs and quietly entered the house, silently cursing at the creaking sound of the door. "I was in the toilet. Got a stomach bug, I guess." I told Lila when she came asking why I wasn't in my bedroom and she bought it.

The rest of the day was lazy from the lack of sleep. I drowsily made myself a cup of coffee after another coffee as I prepared myself for a small stack of dying people's documentaries but the stories took too long to read which was another way of saying that I was reading slower than a sloth would read if a sloth could read.

After lunch, I fell into a heavy sleep and didn't wake up till it was eight in the evening with a bad headache tormenting my whole physical being.

...

"He isn't disqualified but the Dean said he is suspended and would not be able to campaign any longer. I heard he took a lot of time to confess and the other parties were angry." Margo told me while my forehead burned with pain. "What's with you? Migraine?"

"Sort of." I groaned and then I saw Austin pinning his eyes into her with a confusion written all over her face. I blushed and waved a hello but he kept staring, his brows curved into a deep frown. Embarrassed, I looked away and pretended to type something on my phone, and walked out of his sight.