taking stock

a long time since she's been here, a poignant reminder of how long she has been a member of the living dead. She still is a drifter in every sense of the word; a traveller, a wanderer, a pilgrim of suppressed hedonism, a sprinter who exhaust her lungs in every surge of forward movement - never has been a persistent marathon runner. Her attention has been fleeting in other areas; shutting out the listening ear of the attentive doctor beside her as the charismatic pilot presses in for her number. Why not? her internal monologue rationalises away her 3 minute interest in anyone at all.

for the longest time she has been sick of her raven hair; the overdue sunburst colours haunt her every day, in the reflection of a glass, a mirror along the shopping windows. The memory and desire taunt her unceasingly: How much longer will you live a partial life?

the dazzling colours of the city lights of New York provide a wisp of dreamy remembrance these days, as she relives the sensation of the cool Times Square night on her skin and the buzz of people roaming the city that never slumbers. so sweet yet so short; they had to leave before the subway fails them in the wee hours of dawn. how she wished she insisted on watching the warm hues of morning light envelope this city inch by inch. Manhattan, the sleek sort of man she knew she'd fall in love with - long enough for a summer and deep enough to harp on for years after. Perhaps, fond memories will fail her when they meet again, but nostalgia remains bittersweet; like the dark chocolate she well savors.

she starts to wander once again, in her invisible cities she is once again free to roam, free to create, free to dream. no more mirrors and no more promenading.