Spinster Enters The Scene

Do All Seek The Romance Before Their Eyes; Do We All Seek That Evasive And Shy Element in a Life? — Morning Papers XVII

Listen To The Words Of An Old American Spinster — Hearing What She Must; Hearing What She Has Lived Through, And Maybe Child, Just Maybe It Will.

THE LAST PAPER:

Fair, would it be to the weather, if that Polish Blond was left alone from your advances; you come in contact with an adventuring traveler, without the concerns of the romancing love — a bonding love.

This is a little tale from an American Spinster lady, who shall direct you thusly, with true direction of prode and promises. Who’s tongue is far more entranced with such living of things, than here Timeseer, Landseer! Though I shall interplate with my witticisms, as that is my partnered promise of payment! Shall we begin as we always do here, a sniff of the noise, and you pick up a curious scent, yet when you arrive, you have naught else to go on until you reach the conclusions of the piece:

“All its little prospects, should I so imbibe and dance with you, as you flatter your own heart to love such a status.’ The Statue shall say.’ ‘But for me, a whirling Spinster, I am Brief in this letter. I was once at a museum, tall and proud in its exterior posterior; prosumer am I to gander at it long, naught else to be said, cheery-on to the matters of the heart, and to the concerns of the purse. A Museum, a lot most grand to expand the mind from the days' stillborn hurts and yester-night pains, thusly going, I swayed all around, the romance of history being played before my eyes.’

‘The Fine luncheon, even alone was a tripling delight, I say old Charlie bird! Lush eggs with fine herbs and seasonings, vivid and vast for the hungry appetite; a fine bakery satisfies one's need in this department; brewing a fine coffee with the most delicious of sparkles, and foam to cover the stache and lower lip!’

‘Such a fine and tiny thing, a repose from all the artistry around me in great amounts! My-my Sailor, you recuse me from a sea of doubt and thieves of the heart, misery, it is my misery anon, but I remain alive thereafter, for such a young and bitter bud that I have touched, once in my youth and such, is not enough of a reason for me to curl up and die. But that is my hardened view now, at the time, the truth hurt like hell, but it paved the way for me to keep moving forth and learn ever so deeply.’

‘All old and blimey, that tommyrot is! The matter is, would I leave her or would I stay? Anon and anon, so it goes, I suffered well and I shall continue on Suffering well therefrom.’

‘Love is like that, at least a sexually allure one, like a flower that blooms once the sun arrives once again, all that was known between the two is kept tight, late at night, but the reasons for openness come with the meaning that the day brings.”

I shall interpolate here, Seer, that is, Doctor. I worry about this constant ideal of a life without pain, a life without the wrinkles of the skin, a life without the folds of adipose, a life without shocks.

There is too much of it going around, everyone seeping for that undeniable love, that undying write, ever tattooed to the heart and seen through their eyes, yet I worry about what they’re willing to give over for that chance, and perhaps that happenstance becomes purchasable and then mandatory; than being a thing that may happen or not to you, the game of the roulette wheel becomes played by their ungrateful maker, and being thrown witless to always land on Gold.

Is happiness a currency? — in the past and hereafter, Yes! Blimey, it is a dangerous and insidious one, why an enslaved man in the West-indies, stripped of all the humanities by being but mere property, such as the Canes he was thrashed and thrashed for, so another can sweeten their tea; even an ardent abolition, may dine that ever finer, if they aren’t so fixated on what goes into their mouths, as to what goes out.

Are the foolish leading the supposed wise by the flex of their Lust and the need of their Iron-cast bellies? Of course, I generalize, to the point of absurdity, but in course, the idea is becoming straighter, from me to you.

Shall we purchase love someday? Is tomorrow’s man a shallow man? Lonely dove, broaching all his hope over to another for a guaranteed dinner date on Sunday, can’t he suffer anymore? Can’t he be alone anymore, even for a moment freeing in the rarely had silence;

Shall humanity be born into a life of utter Leisure, yet Experience will be become a new blood currency, if they aren’t excluded utterly from showing their skin on the surface, shall this distorted reality be ushered in by the allure of an Utopian ideal — how many have fallen into that prized, precious thing; such is the allure, which I refer back to the fool leading the hungry, bruised and bitter fool to a hell beyond all comprehension.

They say the path to hell is paved by good intentions, and that line, my dear travelers, is damningly true, now and in the past tracks, if you dare and see it starkly as the truth to hold your prejudices too.

As much as one could disagree, suffering is at the core of our trepidations and existence, but it needles itself perilously on whether one has suffered needlessly; to learn is suffering, to be sledded over and over, that you’re either young or wrong in this, it is a dangerous juncture, and for me to witness, I seem many elapse over a side of insolence in not wanting to, and where does that lead them?

A desirable need to blame others, becoming the thrown peddle on the unbroken surface of the lake — no one truly knows of all the inn-roads and consequences of their actions at the present moment, therein lays danger, belaying caution.

I cannot interfere with my own election to stop the course of things, but fairness is what I strive for, even if the inertia behind my bosom of fairness doesn’t align with one’s hopes. Sometimes the force of temperance is indifferent like the stark nature all around us: a Stark Love.

The great filter of our minds, this dissecting line — though certainly not sterile — between the past and the present wants. Love is to you, isn’t what it is to me — I sire, you may love passionately, lustfully even, but we shouldn’t turn ourselves into a body that can purchase what it wants, when it wants, a little starvation makes the taste and sensation of consumption that evermore pleasurable and precious.

A Blimey Tuesday, when that old sprout didn’t show its Hydra-amount faces. Apt facades, they’ll damn and tell ya, you await and see that for believing a stranger caught on first glances! Perhaps the freedom to choose the happenstance where true love is nurtured is what I ask, and a way to relieve the misery of broken love, that my American friend spouted, is what I ask for, just that.

Ta-ta Now, till the next, consider, just that fancy notion of changing a mind: Think about it.

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THE MORNING PAPERS:

The Curation; Our Publication:

LOVE; CARES; WANTS; AN ENDLESS TREADMILL — A Poem:

As ever, Dear Reader.