Velvet Notes: 11-th staircase

Was it so expensive to believe so? It were  burdens of hope to end up the circle of life and no other theory could deny it? It might be great to know it, she says, on the next moment, hour, minute when all shall spread its sculptured  wings and though it feels like a renewed nightmare crawling into hour’s catastrophic big ben.

Silence have locked meanings on the streets and people may cover up themselves by veils of illusions. It has killed passion of life into a chalice for good. She cannot admitted by all means, it were too heavy to cross the multiple faceted along with masks. She doesn’t need one, once she dreamed to wear it but now she has realized that it’s useless.

She has repeated constantly  to herself, life was a prison of deluded wishes confined  to hyphenate the atmosphere. A cloudy prison of life’s, she says, to reach out for the cage of dusty thoughts.

The stardust over a pair of blacked  hypertext  to frame the picture of life. Be gotten all those fairly misconception of people round, then it passed away the imagery fulfilled of  society’s unwillingness  and prejudices of any kind. She cannot change opinions to other’s exchanged dreams. Therefore thoughts rumbling faster and faster into her head to expire on the tickets to life. She has erased old principles because mentality is distorted all the time by daily events which may change your life for the best. This ideal of hers would never die amongst bunches of bone blossoming from above. To eradicate mentality and its cruel barter with life it means so much to her, likewise people have mirrored their souls into the window pane.

She imagined the life’s stages as being pyres of hope, it was not like she says. Never imagined it, she continues silence from all, the dead would be envious on me, will they? Her tiny  heart strikes the hours into minutes

Words were not as she thought like. Mere words, she repeated herself, people put the blame on words likewise it weren’t so capable to distinguish amongst the limitedness from all.

Wearing the mask of bigotry thus it were the great impact in front of all. The first and the last mask and nor have heard of claws to scratch the formicarium . She watches on the window, all those armours are floundering snowflakes over the sleepless hours to conjure TO BE  a foreign incantation to all those chambers of echoes beneath her soul. It will snow, she says, it will snow by dreams amongst this cradle of reality, forgotten  alphabets  of small world she’s been living in. She might noticed from all, but it should appear as rampant , nor hectic as it used to be once. This claw of life has dried up now, she thought of it too many times. Although  she have to move on following the golden brick path, an grey clouded shape to conceal all from the start. Move on, Move on, Move on  said a shadowy voice , though she has said that echoes are flawless. It were  like? She must notice a  paper cut dream from now on?!Smashed  it into pieces the corollary of life’s?!Nor it seemed to grow  within the hours passed. Obsession from all were designed to a spider’s web on the daily canvas.

She has repeated constantly  to herself, life was a prison of deluded wishes confined  to hyphenate the atmosphere. A cloudy prison of life’s, she says, to reach out for the cage of dusty thoughts.

Grey lines are covering the truth  beyond a perfect calligraphy  though, she has written about a cage of thoughtful emotions, otherwise it would cut off your hopes , nor mutual conversion of meanings might be repelled. She used to confess all this, I say it were thousands of hopes drown into wax figures of mankind’s , it can be  expressed by gloominess of daily life. It were so many delusions ever since, she says it would  turn on the clock for thousand time to number hours passed without any regard on the matter. Such a delightful  overview from all, afterwards  she may contemplate silence from all!

People  were cursed  by mirrors, she would say, searching with a glance into the chariots of clouds, it will take away her  cold thoughts by now. And the story is dead and gone. She doesn’t know what is it, as if she had ever knew, will you? She will never die for an damn idea, but she adores mankind to be like her own flesh dragged on the ground. She cannot speak, she writes on the walls all round everything she thought of. But she writes, even if she cannot speak . Again she is staring at the wall asking the dust,  finding up for merciful answers never be gotten . It stirs all your energy to conceive from all?!Yes and she said it were. She has found  another wall to write to, but she cannot speak at all. I can’t speak, she says. Women are contemporary metaphors, feathered  emotions within words, she would think. It has never existed a  story. It must be dreadful to know the story behind her eyes. You will never  shriek for it, she says. She was decided to write a letter to nowhere for thousands  of lost hours. 

Dear hour rampant/running deep within my …..No she cut off the lines, it’s not fair, she says, I should  find another vow, but I won’t write it as I wished it. Dear hour-less, hectic and headstrong I’m not indulged to such manner to believe so, she has to number less and  saved more energy. Beyond her glasses I remain silenced for years passed.

She vows always for life to be expelled by a prison of dust..........