Self-Ashtualisation

White hearts congregate like birds sitting snug on multiple, multiplied family trees. Feathers melted from milk chocolates, malted, those beauties perch on top a wedding cake, specially made for singles like me. The hearts are browned through the whites of my eyes, caramelised, fragranced with the aroma of French rose tea, befriending my every sense with the sweetness of waterfalls.   I am reborn every day, a foreigner in the floral-speaking country called Friendship, learning, without burning, its every tradition and myth, myself dragonised with each new word and phrase earned. Face turned unphased, I let every raindrop grow into my heart’s frosting, returning to the homecoming and upcoming parties that are my chosen family trees.   The butterflies in my stomach, wings fluttering, never fly away. Look here they are to stay! Inside I am freshened by their frientastical sprinkling of fairy dust. All I need to stay sweet, lit and booked up,

When I socialise, demoralised over cup after cup of glass-half-full non-caffeinated virtual hot beverage, I am immediately uncoupled from my twin flames, myself and I, so who’s left? Me. Burnt out. Black-coffeed. Dramatically dehydrated. I hug my burnt-black-coffee self with my loose arms, muscles relaxed, but steady as bookshelves, momentarily armed, moneyed, materialised with breathing, reading material. Bye-bye or rather welcome (back), sugar!  

Books? Hooked. All booked up, in fact – and fiction, though sometimes life’s not without the occasional bookish friction, more precisely called the DNFriction, whose short, sharp existence, read and unread, has the surreal smell and sound of the soundest non-fiction. Neat words? Not quite, as you’ll soon discover in my probably-quite-judgy-eyed, not-quite- confident conclusions – all unfinished, inconclusive and off course, of course.   The first book I’ve ever unfriended from my precious reading time zone is a bit of a presumptuous character, for it contains this character who keeps assuming I know everything, when I most certainly do not. You know, you know, you know! In every page she keeps screaming, or rather pretends to shout at other characters, when you and I know she’s yelling at me, me, me, defensively urging me to keep reading that plotless book she’s in, one that needs urgent attention, as much as it can get – and maybe more as I snore