The alchemist
VIP
Felt the need to randomly write something. I don't write ever, by the way, nor do I read this type of literature:
This physical reality is made up of billions of tiny pieces and yet is arranged into wholes, is what he thinks to himself, looking into his fiancée's beautiful, hopeful, smiling face. “Does she know I’m pieces moving in tandem?” He lightly smiles mournfully. Diana sees him as more than he is, a complete man that got things figured out. That optimistic reflection is what holds him together. What she sees through her eyes. The discrepancy of the two, both the figment of her love and his broken reality reminds Victor of the duality of life. Is he a fraud, a disintegrated person, or are both true? Celestial bodies move majestically in predictable forms, disciplined, prisintely. They are made up of sub-atomic particles that conform to no pattern. “Stochasticity” is what he thought. The whimsical way she entered his life with rays of passion, dichotomous from what he had lived before she randomly entered. “Nothing is ever random,” he thought.
Turning her head slightly, trying to meet his eyes desperately, indicating she sees him, or wants to, or thinks so, she says, “What are you thinking about?”
“Nothing. Only how beautiful you are.”
The End.
This physical reality is made up of billions of tiny pieces and yet is arranged into wholes, is what he thinks to himself, looking into his fiancée's beautiful, hopeful, smiling face. “Does she know I’m pieces moving in tandem?” He lightly smiles mournfully. Diana sees him as more than he is, a complete man that got things figured out. That optimistic reflection is what holds him together. What she sees through her eyes. The discrepancy of the two, both the figment of her love and his broken reality reminds Victor of the duality of life. Is he a fraud, a disintegrated person, or are both true? Celestial bodies move majestically in predictable forms, disciplined, prisintely. They are made up of sub-atomic particles that conform to no pattern. “Stochasticity” is what he thought. The whimsical way she entered his life with rays of passion, dichotomous from what he had lived before she randomly entered. “Nothing is ever random,” he thought.
Turning her head slightly, trying to meet his eyes desperately, indicating she sees him, or wants to, or thinks so, she says, “What are you thinking about?”
“Nothing. Only how beautiful you are.”
The End.
