People don't write from the heart, they don't feel that way either, they just do their routine, move their chess pieces here and there, this spot or that spot, all day, all night.
I love boxing, I want nothing more than to see the best warrior battle the best challenger, I love it, it's battle, it's war, it's combat, I love when the leather flies, it's viciously beautiful, and then suddenly, boom, there's a knockout, face down on the canvas, it's a quiet moment, a gentle moment and most people don't see it or feel it, they have no hearts, you are not like me, we are not the same, and you don't understand it, you don't understand me or why I love these things, why I am the way I am, a rival, why I lied, my stupid secret, this stupid blog, you all poach for details, my sister was mad at me for almost two weeks, we're finally speaking again, I don't feel well, as if I ever do, I want calmness and for this infinite grief to leave me, to let me live and to love things again with my whole heart, I've read thousands of books, written millions of words, I want a rainstorm in this cold, stone refuge, my wild beauty of orchids growing on my vaulted ceiling, red belly fish and a balcony made of dark marble, stalwart trees full of glass dolls and vast rivers of orange water, warm feminine palms on my face, on my breasts and all over me, warm and wetness, a graceful dance together, and for the ghosts to navigate the fog and to disappear before my silent and wandering eyes, a Duchess Crown atop my head, a royal red velvet robe and chosen, elected status, my innovative and terrifyingly artificially intelligent army in a field of forgotten tanks, a light bearing cross, and my flesh scarred and bruised, a mad woman you called me, how dare you, this insult, this breathing light, the fall of light, I will not speak of sins or of your murder, the filtered sunlight bathing in the green grass and shy lilacs, the pensive peonies, the sweet daisies, the crafty foxgloves, and peppered and playful poppies, and a unique rose among the slumbering cobra lily, the sharpest thorns of all the others, a delicate rose, a dangerously beautiful and unfading, unbroken rose.