Alice sits by her bedroom window.
So white, so beautiful, so pure and pristine. It looked as if clouds had descended on it in a blanket and decided to envelope it for safety.
And she loves her room, Alice.
But even in it's comforts she feels an inexplicable wave of fear strike her at the most unlikely of moments. And it lingers, it does.
She wants to tell the little bird, her friend who used to fly around her head and chirp knowingly albeit strangely off-key.
But the little bird scoffs the security of her room. What more her irrational fears in spite of it, and it thus made a vow to never visit Alice for as long as she lived there. Or she would never know if it did.
As Alice walks to her snow-white bed, she stares at it for a long while.
So untainted, unpolluted, unblemished. Then she closes her eyes and whispers to herself "I'll try.", falling backwards onto the soft cottony sheets and attempting to soak up the softness of it.
But the world is made up of bipolar dynamics. And Alice knows that. With every soft touch, there is hardness to it.
Closing her eyes, she resigns herself to and inevitable fate of either metaphorically or literally getting killed.
But that's Alice.
Entry @ 1:28 AM;
Sunday, June 29, 2008
