There will be time, there will be time

To prepare a face to meet the faces that you meet;

There will be time to murder and create,

And time for all the works and days of hands

That lift and drop a question on your plate;

Time for you and time for me,

And time yet for a hundred indecisions,

And for a hundred visions and revisions,

Before the taking of a toast and tea.


Another poetry session was concluded.
Random blurry images rushing past like torrents of uninhibited garbage.
And then the moment of truth?
She gets up and walks a few paces and comes to a suitable conclusion.
But ofcourse, he must be told!
And so he is.

"because we are so immune/detached/unaware/scared/paranoid about reality and physicality and real love and we are so scared of rejection/denial/boredom that we have convinced each other that we are the perfect one for each other but since that cant be fulfilled either we are trying to convince each other and more importantly ourselves that real and true love are different and we are so so so very devoted to that idea that we have perfectly convinced ourselves and we are now convinced that we are insane because we are too scared to know what it actually can be."

I rest my case.
I plead insanity.