An invidious affair.

I love baking. To me, baking is a process of understanding yourself. Unlike cooking, which everything has to be fast, precise on the dot. The process of baking involves much patience and meticulousness. From the preparation of the mix, the beating of the eggs, the adding of ingredients, the wait of the outcome, every part of the process, is worth a little fantasy to be aroused, a bit of my brain to wander about. Or perhaps, this brain of mine just requires a little more time to churn, which so explains I can't cook.

I found this Oreo Cheesecake recipe, which I gladly name it, Snow on a Stove.

Later then, I found out that he is fond of Crimson, I then looked up for Strawberry cake recipes, and have decided to name the one I am going to bake, A Crimson Cavalcade, an appropriate name for what has been going around, about us I guess.

I thought everything is within my control. I had imagined the loveliest, and dreamt of magic. To great disappointment of so many around me, I have to confess that I can never be a realist. Which is why, I chose to shun, because I know I have failed. And it's pointless for me to justify, or explain. I don't plan to get anyone involved, ultimately, I know it's only I who has to be answered to. Even if I ended up damaged, I don't want to permit myself to have anyone to blame, but myself.

My ex lover commented how I am such a believer in the whole ideology of love. That I am still living in my own world, and how I can be such a sweet girl if I can be less emotional. I find his words extremely contradicting. Funnily, why would he even want to express his regrets for not appreciating me a little more back then if he thinks I am like that.

I don't know how to feel now. I can't even express how I feel inside right now. I believe there's a jet lag involved, this is such a lame self-consolation. And I like it.

I can't help but wait. As long as I wish to surrender my heart, to see you, for what you really are. What can I do, or rather what am I supposed to do. I keep coming up with arguments to resist those which has been ringing endlessly, time and time again. Simple yet, provocative arguments like the handing of the numerous prized possessions, the look in your eyes the day I walked away, the kiss. Is my naked heart sensing what I only want to feel? Or is this self-delusion that intense to blind me of the crystal clear truths? And am I wrong at all to express my doubts after everything that has happened which propels to question my own confidence?

I have been told that I am a mystery novel myself. I so wish to be read like an open book. Turns out, I got caught in a suspense thriller.

A beauty;

of the ethereal side,

materialised a baleful vision.

plunged a devious kiss,

thief'd the doleful soul,

a bottomless perdition;

I hereby dwell.

where do I land my pride?