Is one of friendship, for you resemble a fragment of my past, my only confidant of the time, the executioner of all my evil and dejected thoughts, one who would read Dostoevsky with me when all others would rather read biology and visit cancer stricken teachers in deathbeds, you, who chose not to cry in face of death, you, who question existence and authority, you who were rejected by the masses when I chose to eject myself away from it, so this little communion of ours, progressed to one to mean me being your only protector, your only defender, although you have never asked any of this.
Of course I never understood whatever afro girl has ever said to you, nor any of the rumours spreading around you, for I seek the story only from you. Like when you ran away in the middle of the night on your birthday from all maddening crows who swore to beat you, so much their hatred was towards you, and off you ran, jumping off the school gates into the thick darkness that would greet you like a mother. But she smothered you, and so you, came back to me, when we encountered above the canteen, where you slept between desks and made chairs you bed and the curtains your sheets and the stray cats would made love to one another in your presence and you, startled, feeling lost suicidal insignificant, invisible avoidant of the world of all that you have ever known, you returned to me, the only one who could’ve remotely understood it all. You would ask me of advice. You who have lost a father and grew tired of the passive mother, would return to me, always, always, continually.
Of course all of this is fiction.
perkaraperkara 