So apparently I've gotten much time to elaborate this exercise which my friend and fellow blogger started to called Spin-A-Yarn (you can read here what Ruhani calls the B-4 Theory).
So companeros! This is the sequel to Ruhani's first post - The Journal.
They talked of his enigmatic lineage. But most importantly, they talked of her.
|Source: Ruhani's Blog|
He would be apprehensive to open them, lest the vanilla, fruity almond like spoor abscond the folios. He feared it. Yes, he did. It was only the fragrance and archaic, unbecoming leather binding which had incarcerated golden letters which grew pristine when once she'd fondled them with the extremities of her long, articulate hands. Her ubiquitous aura for generations teased his memories of her, which he with all his might had tried preserving. No soul was allowed around the volume oh his leaves. He hadn't wanted anybody to have savored to the fruity aura he'd resuscitated for all this while. That would have taken a trifling chunk of her away from him, thereby shortening his age that was left to be expended with whatever he had of her.
He had escalated to the zenith, with her. His plunges had cascaded, without her. Those manuscripts roared about her departure, it roared of his story; their story. He'd been like a directionless mortified patina which had been disconnected from its vivacious tree, compelling him to unload his soul which had felt like a rock when she'd pilfered his fortitude, leaving his soul groundless. He'd roam the lanes which screeched her name in anguish in the hope that somewhere, someplace, he might find her, and beseech her, to refund his heart.
The corsage that she used to place around them would still linger inside their urn. Orchids; she adored them. And now the same torn folios, the peeling edges couldn't stop her. The golden letters that'd adorned the leather bindings once, had vanished to an unrecognizable extent in the wake of retrieving her, so that her earthy smell could ease out the torn pages, settle the peeling edges, talk to them about him pushing his limits further than the zenith so that they would never bemoan his tragic fall. He was renowned to be just. He'd been just - with her memories, in preserving her. All of her. But He had been unjust, to snatch away the only memory he was striving to enunciate to the world; unjust to snatch her from him.
And now on his twenty six thousand, four hundred and eighty eighth day of his residing in this realm, the pages which smelt of vanilla scented wood, were bolted, still clutching to the sagas of unsolved mysteries and countless secrets. They no more spoke of his companions, or his enigmatic lineage. But most importantly, they perished with him, while talking of her all this time.
See you fellas.
Till then tener cuidado.