Like a baby, struggling to come out of its mother's womb, fighting its way out into a world of atrocities. Oblivious to its future and what it beholds. Feelings are born like this. It brings joy, it brings pain, and sometimes it brings contrivance one cannot fathom. Once born, they are here to linger and loiter. Like a child, it grows in a playground of emotions. Chaste, insouciant and blithe. Like a brash buoyant force its growth is sinewy and almost trenchant.
One cannot strife with his own Frankenstein feelings. It gladden or blacken your heart. A shroud of predilection wraps the heart in concupiscence for warmth. A fatidical fallacy.
They are here to stay with you like a non identical twin. It abandons you only in its aberrant death. Which is rather sporadic. It may abscond, but time to time it surfaces as streams of tears and laughter. A conjurer, necromancer, waving his band of wizardry, it weaves magic in our lives. However black or white it is. It is magic and is no mundane.
“Life, although it may only be an accumulation of anguish, is dear to me, and I will defend it.”
― Mary Shelley, Frankenstein
One cannot strife with his own Frankenstein feelings. It gladden or blacken your heart. A shroud of predilection wraps the heart in concupiscence for warmth. A fatidical fallacy.
They are here to stay with you like a non identical twin. It abandons you only in its aberrant death. Which is rather sporadic. It may abscond, but time to time it surfaces as streams of tears and laughter. A conjurer, necromancer, waving his band of wizardry, it weaves magic in our lives. However black or white it is. It is magic and is no mundane.
“Life, although it may only be an accumulation of anguish, is dear to me, and I will defend it.”
― Mary Shelley, Frankenstein
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