primary colours

Frankly she is unpermitting and pretentious because her whole world is crafted around books and the events and occurrings surrounding her. There is nothing more she would like then to be profusely immersed into the heart of another that she would soon begin her own devices and weave an awry tragic tale, romantacizing everything treating every single dialog, conversation, gesture, as a holy mountain that she gazes with absolute wonder, or jealousy, or how can we describe this we don’t really know; it is as if the very thing was made and placed before her by god himself that she may only perceive it from afar, but not dare to approach it, because she is meek and weak and everything in between. She is the unholiest of them all, the most crafty, unoriginal thing in the world, that everything and everyone she touches becomes a farce. If Midas turns everything into gold than she turns everything into a wretched laughable thing that is so degenerated to everyone but her. She call her creations the most truthful of them retrieved , inspired, from life itself, but one could not help but wonder or question the source of her baseness, whether it was from horror itself or that she is merely amusing herself. Or perhaps she has always seen everything with different eyes. We would never know this, because we can only assume from afar, because there is only so much we can perceive from above.