Why? Because I Love You.

<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><div style="text-align: justify;">He probed. She was unsure. But eventually yielded. "I love you. You're beautiful." She wont say it back. No, scratch that. She can't say it back. Carefully, very carefully, he tries all he can. Take two. One small push and she's all his. Moving in perfect synchronization of body, of life. How does she say it? Without him getting scared and backing off? Her mind screams, "I love you! And I've loved you all this while." But her mouth stays locked in his. </div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhSenQqUoOktTKSdtqIeiusDQPT9kMSwZrj_341bbnf9qkewC1gg6moLoZEQTp6xKbPRwBU-DkzCWakPSW6REuE3cWYw9YuI71E9Qwcz5rbUnggDTR6BDQJgHvC3SwSnRj9-IcVMDeh9KuW/s1600/398264_121198314681755_113244062143847_97460_421583803_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhSenQqUoOktTKSdtqIeiusDQPT9kMSwZrj_341bbnf9qkewC1gg6moLoZEQTp6xKbPRwBU-DkzCWakPSW6REuE3cWYw9YuI71E9Qwcz5rbUnggDTR6BDQJgHvC3SwSnRj9-IcVMDeh9KuW/s400/398264_121198314681755_113244062143847_97460_421583803_n.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">The words lost in the heat of the moment. Drowned in passion. "Relax," he says, sensing the urgency and the tenseness in her back. She lets out a soft moan, as his hands move down, easing out all her apprehensions. They shift. The kisses are different. His more tearing. Hers, softer. Her hand caressing his face. Obvious love. "It's funny how it never felt like this when we were together." "Because when we were together, I was playing my part. The caring boyfriend one." Muffled gasps. Sharp pain. "So that was all an act?" Long drawn sigh. "Not really. I meant it when I was in it. It's just too taxing for a guy like me." </div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhugIS5417FDCzP0w7FZ4jnPgLRBZ5etMVLs-fY518lxPuAJwxTCPu1v7s76X47ltxAfqvlsszybt8qo931RwiUJoi_UVt98GrV5utmXBPRsaF3I4bYhtEOzGkdAP3yPdscy_nsiaPSbQxN/s1600/528948_113257822142471_113244062143847_62044_859127306_n.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhugIS5417FDCzP0w7FZ4jnPgLRBZ5etMVLs-fY518lxPuAJwxTCPu1v7s76X47ltxAfqvlsszybt8qo931RwiUJoi_UVt98GrV5utmXBPRsaF3I4bYhtEOzGkdAP3yPdscy_nsiaPSbQxN/s400/528948_113257822142471_113244062143847_62044_859127306_n.jpg" width="400" /></a> </div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">Unshed tears, distracted by tethering his body, embedding her nails in his arched back. Teeth gnawing supple skin. Red. Color of hurt. Color of passion. Of love. She strokes his forehead as he slowly moves her hair out of her face to get a closer look. He doesn't call her beautiful. Something stops him. At the very edge. But she wants to know. Lazy exhaustion. Slower kisses. Wild submission. Acceptance. Denial. Tired. "They don't understand, but this is the best part." Contentment. Really? She wants to ask. Then how do you? Is it just me? Tell me! Talk out loud! "You have weird perceptions and estimations about yourself, you know..." "Like what?" He snuggles closer. </div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj5Tx4zk43KHQOtVnXY-Av7J95LrI372PdYqIJ1JEzEI1IZe3Q-XInXPwVbwyCw7dKyFbnYQbp5DB1EBnS6h2GtR_JR_fgUDmGodTIo1tfegdNjrNX5EXbvQ2LvbrrMbEZzLgC8xlhAncDD/s1600/383549_113256188809301_113244062143847_61973_239091754_n.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj5Tx4zk43KHQOtVnXY-Av7J95LrI372PdYqIJ1JEzEI1IZe3Q-XInXPwVbwyCw7dKyFbnYQbp5DB1EBnS6h2GtR_JR_fgUDmGodTIo1tfegdNjrNX5EXbvQ2LvbrrMbEZzLgC8xlhAncDD/s400/383549_113256188809301_113244062143847_61973_239091754_n.jpg" width="266" /></a> </div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">His hand always in motion against her back. He kisses her head discreetly, thinking she can't tell. She can. She can always tell. "Like this. You think you want this. You're a really good boyfriend for as long as you don't start thinking about it." "Hmm..." he mutters with his eyes shut. Still holding her close. She doesn't think he realizes that this is the closest they've gotten in a long time. And it's the closest they will be, all bared, in a very, very long time to come. </div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"> <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi61DMrp325au3v1vsXfdLU0bXUliNY3xHsncGzYnIFnh8ISHD9nUy61vIJKbuAu31yWvp8m4XNLfilEmpMItocCjgbY2o-uLkegN-NE_Rkm53WWUQH1C2IH03cdmOX4_TiS_SxdyrG7qeu/s1600/576328_355901444457217_139716102742420_970337_1655586476_n.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi61DMrp325au3v1vsXfdLU0bXUliNY3xHsncGzYnIFnh8ISHD9nUy61vIJKbuAu31yWvp8m4XNLfilEmpMItocCjgbY2o-uLkegN-NE_Rkm53WWUQH1C2IH03cdmOX4_TiS_SxdyrG7qeu/s400/576328_355901444457217_139716102742420_970337_1655586476_n.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">"You wanna get a smoke?" This is it. She doesn't want to let go. She's finally found something comfortable. Comforting. Something that doesn't make her squirm, or jump back in disapproval and skepticism. She was scared she'd find out how irrevocable her feelings were where he was concerned if she ever landed up in something like this. And there you go. She found out. And it hit her so hard, that she doesn't mind not being carefully handled, or not called beautiful, or looked at with a certain kind of deep love only some pair of eyes can show her. For all she cares. Ravage my body. Be harsh yet truthful.  In whatever limited and warped form that may be possible. This is not me. It's not who I am. What am I doing? Giving in because you're tired. Somebody answers. Consumed. </div></div>

Why? Because I Love You.

He probed. She was unsure. But eventually yielded. "I love you. You're beautiful." She wont say it back. No, scratch that. She...

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Futile Weekend

<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh3p6bxCxHR7jqsTrOM43qoV5u7N4eHQhPgFLWqtTo6eHJIXC3THutL0klIhOf3g70N-8HB87qhgBbJkv2zjDwt5agp5aiq5_EbDtx30G_CXuv-qqFo8RgrvXLEEb4Mqj566QDxw_9rXeT4/s1600/weekend.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="180" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh3p6bxCxHR7jqsTrOM43qoV5u7N4eHQhPgFLWqtTo6eHJIXC3THutL0klIhOf3g70N-8HB87qhgBbJkv2zjDwt5agp5aiq5_EbDtx30G_CXuv-qqFo8RgrvXLEEb4Mqj566QDxw_9rXeT4/s320/weekend.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div style="text-align: justify;"> </div><div style="text-align: justify;">A famous person once said; "You're either very creative or very disastrous when you're not you".<br /><br />Now who could that famous person possibly be...<br /><br />Doesn't ring a bell???<br /><br />Okay, fine! I just made it up!<br /><br />I came back to my blog because... seriously, I had nothing else to do. I could study, but that would do nothing but annoy me some more. I could watch movies, but I've had enough already (*impossible!*), I could listen to some music but that didn't contain me either.<br /><br />Well, lets just talk about this crazy thing called 'Weekend' then. I've been giving this thing a significant proportion of my 'Recommended Daily Allowance' of thoughts lately.<br /><br />What is a weekend? Now in the language of law, "that is a question of fact". For some, it is no different that a weekday, as it was for me a couple of months ago. However for some, it could mean coming back to life after having a robotic week.<br /><br />Right now, I have this kind of 'strategy'. To make the most of the weekend! But you know, international fluctuations in the oil prices do affect the extent of fun a person can have.<br /><br />So ultimately I'm just stuck here on Weekend doing nothing but writing this blog while I should be out partying or checking out some movie at the cinema.<br /><br />Now, how could a weekend be put to use in its entirety?<br /><br />Maybe by meeting old friends. But that won't work if they're busy shifting places or studying or watching Football! (:D)<br /><br />So, after writing another useless blog post and without reaching a consensus, I'm gonna go and think of some new ways of making the most of the weekend.<br /><br />*Watching some more of HOUSE...*<br /><br />*Reading some already-read book...*</div></div>

Futile Weekend

  A famous person once said; "You're either very creative or very disastrous when you're not you". Now who could that famo...

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