Just Write

The wind, swirling the pouring rain into falling even harder, pounding against the arched window, creating a peaceful ambiance of the background of reading with a cup of tea in one hand, a book in the other, a cat on the cushions, a warm blanket.

Compilations of notes, meticulously studied, carefully constructed, color coded, and arranged neatly in a singular notebook lying next to a pair of headphones, a cup of coffee to last through the all nighter, to ace an exam with ink stains on the hands.

A tote bag on one arm, filled with books, lipgloss, a pair of earbuds and an iPod. In the other hand, a fresh bouquet, wrapped in crinkly brown paper, tied with twine, smelling heavenly, the blend of pinks, purples, and greens awaiting to be arraigned eloquently in a crystal vase.

Perhaps we romanticize this world too much. Perhaps we try to avoid reality by giving meaning to meaningless things. Perhaps our lives really are just hollow, and we spend as much time as possible to try to make it not so. Perhaps we throw our heads in the clouds because the earth is too rough for everyday. Perhaps.

Perhaps, however, we don’t appreciate these things as much as we should.

Perhaps.