Stray thoughts

Pohutukawas are out. Ah, the lovely gorgeous red. The colour of fire. The colour of passion. The colour of summer. Why then is it still so cold?

The two ulcers on my upper lip hurts like hell. Can hardly talk. Let alone eat. Hate it. Everything stings. Help me. I want to sprinkle salt on it, but I'm afraid of the pain. Let it go away.

Why do I care? A few words were enough to propel me into a mood I thought I never possessed or maybe thought I grew out of. So why then did your words have such an effect on me? Maybe it's because I care. You are the closest thing I have there.

It doesn't matter if my chances are slim. It doesn't even bother me now. I'm just focused on giving a wham- bam- attack- kick- ass interview. Nothing matters anymore. I want it. I want it. I will have it.

As I glide, my legs propelling me, pushing me that bit faster, I stare at the straight black line with chlorinated water gushing by. Chlorine, an allergy you overcame. I remember your words, my inspiration. Your words ring in my ear. Your gestures are imprinted in my mind. Why did you have to leave? Why can't you continue to make history. Then I realise. I don't want to be like that too. Lap after lap after lap. It can be depressing. Where is the drive? What drive?

He said, 'You guy's would be compatible.' I said, 'No. Not my type'. He said, 'Intellectually on par. Will have loads to talk about.' I said, 'No thanks. I cannot handle boredom.' I need something different in life.

I cherish beauty. What I lack in looks, I substitute with my awesome personality. You continue to surprise. I surprise myself. Thoughts are a strange thing. They confuse you. You toy with them. You know they won't hurt. Emotions are like huge powere surges. Like Ingrid's hot flushes.

I never thought I'd find you. Then you come by. Like a long lost twin.

We should reduce our volume and control ourselves. People can hear us. We should behave ourselves. I know we should have fun, but it's not appropriate. Be good.