A Thought From Class

“I liked how it was a love story, ‘cause love is surreal.” She sat there, with her shining hair, a blonde glow; blue, streaming like the outdoors. Her scarf matched her freckles, her heart matched her jeans. The pessimism sat in the corner, with wanna-be, profound, unclear, obscure, shouted comments that clouded the room. They ruined the magic, halted the streams: the imagination that kept us all coming back. Because it was only a few pages long, with not a lot to go off of, not a whole lot at all. But we believed in the surrealism, the love story. The light dimmed away like a winter hat being pulled down over my eyes, like a surprise, or a metaphorical object of some sorts. A common thing, a common, talked about, over-thought, but from a new perspective. Looking at it all in completely new light, like it’s shining through clear water. No one is to blame, it’s just tradition.