Organized Chaos

She sits down. Her room is like always: desk-table with brown legs and brown table-top and translucent varnishing on the surfaces; grey fan whirring behind her like a napping monster satisfied with merely making strands of hair on her scalp move,no violent activity involved; trophies in the white bookshelf next to her, the first row, her country’s flag sitting on the second shelf and actual books on Stocks and Markets and Hedge Funds crammed into the third shelf; water bottle made of plastic that sunshine likes to batter occasionally when the window-curtains are strewn open; herself:

Herself:

Herself:

The epitome of drowsing, drunken confusion, a whisked mess of carbohydrates, proteins and languidly-flowing blood, apple-cheeks and blackened hair, pudginess around hip-bones and the heart of a lion within white-boned rib-cage.

She has plans. Big plans, although, in all honesty, she knows that she will not stick to them exactly–she’ll definitely start on Phase 1 and halfway through Phase 2 within two weeks but begin to un-stick from the glamorous idea of Having A Plan from Phase 2.5 onwards.

It’s always like that. She wants to change, but Life won’t give her a chance.

The introduction of the complex and unpredictable character leaves her breathless with anxiety and anticipation; fear and frenzy; salt and sugary-sweet slivers of hope. Life winds through her DNA and embeds herself in her chromosomes and diffuses in and out of lacteals and microvilli in her body. Life is also a ribbon that holds her soul together, but restricts its movement and catches her in a heavy-handed grasp around the waist, sometimes around the neck–

These are the times where she can’t breathe.

Sigh. Life has a way of ruining her plans, but that’s okay. It catches her off-guard and strikes whenever she has orange juice; she swills it around in a stemmed glass, pretending that it’s wine–whatever, both orange juice and the slightly alcoholic substance lower her inhibitions, lower the gates of herself long enough to create a beautiful disaster.

It’s okay. She’s Organized Chaos, after all. She thrives on making plans that only exist to be demolished by others’ hands.

(sometimes, her own)

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