an old little rose-bud i found in my Enid Blyton book.
on my new desk! (:
every so often i fear i have grown cold, not being able to feel deeply (my old weakness). maybe even grown inure to heart-bruises and a faint, but still glaringly obvious frustration of not being able to express myself as i want to.
on a brighter note though, it's a good thing how much more happy i am able to feel when i want to. (:
and yet i have particularly immense, intense love for beauty and everything that i see and you too, of course and for those i have yet to meet.
(i will love him because it will be lovely to love him.)