Love Or Something Like It

Description, Narrative, Argumentative

       Sarah became lucky adapting to a vision and moved on with the story she was

writing. She never knew how to measure her amount of pain through every stroke of the

pencil, marking in history the bottomless pit. Making sure every word fit right with her

size, the equipment of her brain churned faster. Over and over again, the same words

mounted her thin line between love and sadness. Every moment of glancing at the papers,

she became smaller and weak. She thought she was too strong to hold on, but the glass

slipper never came back, and before she awoke out of a daydream, life struck her by

surprise.

       "Love," she reaches out of her trance, whispering. "Love, love, love, love," Sarah

went on annoyed, "It's all so belittling!"

       Sarah released herself, as the pencil, off the piece of paper. Loving every moment, she

spoke words of wisdom, "We were alone in the beginning, as we will be alone in the

end." However quickly withdrawing from terror, she made a decision to be perfect and to

not waste minutes talking of such things.

       "Emptiness within emptiness," she surrendered. "If I ever make it out alive, I'll thank

this passion for the times when I had more than that. Don't interrupt me when I'm

speaking. Keep talking of such things. Don't waste another moment staying away from

the one place everyone wants to be."

       Disrupting herself from mentioning the thought of loving another, she made it seem

to her disobeying self that make believe is just a dream to be awakened from if right and

wrong send more time to think. The sun's light shone through the enormous window of

her apartment coloring the the wooden coffee table in front of the main couch, and the

vase in the center's flowers reflected the sun and radiated yellow of the pedals throughout

the whole of the limited space. The health of the limits stopping the outside from coming

in centered her into a romance. She spoke, "But recurring dreams serve as warning signs

of the exact circumstances that need full dedication."

       Theraputic music sang violins from the stereo as Sarah poured water into a glass. "I

hate this feeling that stares down at the stubborn and tries to become better than

everything else." She had put on Beethoven before she walked across the rug to her

kitchen. The Moonlight Sonata was the addictive song she keeps from playing until the

day seems worthy enough. Bipolar tendencies wrap her insides with white as Sarah's body

absorbs the water flowing down her sensitive esophagus. The white is the first covering of

the dead in ancient Egypt, the gold shade in style of faith.

       Without the burning worry that she is reassuring critics in her head that she is

straightforward, she sounds out words of this apathy, "If someone knows the cause of

their suffering, like this heartbeat, then the awareness of an answer to the reason will

surface in and through the out, as the air I breathe." Sarah looks at the mocking clock as

the simple meanings of life seap into her inventing brain as reasons to depression. The

resourceful ease of this lofty future's impact has on her creates illusions that come down

on her world as a masterpiece. Sarah gives out evidence of slight rest from the yearnings

of consciousness by sliding into a spin inside an aura of blue and red.

       Hands that symbolize the difference between dream and reality feel the air that is

existent everywhere in her effervescent reality. Sarah's hands stay clear as the world

around her amazingly blurs. As all emotion that pervades to be true, it slowly ends. The

flowery hope puts down the path to enrichment to a complete stop, and optimism seems

incomplete. Still, some of the company of her true sides are not satisfied, and the

determination of this confides in the belief of immortality. The appearance of her veins

flow with natural pain.

       When the song changes to a "prankster" melody by The Offspring, Sarah continues to

think when the afternoon couldn't get any worse. For harmony isn't sung when everyone

sings the same note. "If my heart is the pump of blood, then love is as involuntary as the

lung," Sarah mouths out. The vibrations made their way across the entire apartment when

the music ends, and the silenced doubt is forgotten.

       Love is as real as life, because love is in the basics of life and regeneration itself.

Love is a dream, because life is a dream. Dreams are only fantasy when you make them

that way. Dreams are as real as the mind, if you consider the parts we don't use. Sarah

wanted more to life because she thought primarily on the totality of an argument on love.

Guessing about the facts of love or lust is a waste, if you aren't curious about the weight

of an emotion. Deciphering whether love matters or not is similar to asking whether it has

an affect on the result or not. Love, lust, dreams, and consciousness are all a part of life,

like everything that is a part of life. The reason you are here is because you are here.

Desire isn't a waste of time when you consider the result in relevance to the reason.

Author's Note

This was for school, so it's more formal

Reviews

[huma]

I totally get you...
formal?
for me, a soul peep show

[DANGER]

*road of enrichment*