If my life were a picture, it would be a pretty little house with a white picket fence and bush of white roses and a tree filled with birds chirping away. it would be in a secluded area on a hilltop somewhere away from the noise and congestion and traffic jam of the city. It would be peace and serenity. That one place everyone wants to live in but cant. So they resort to sour-graping and throwing stones, which by the way don’t even reach my little haven.
And then that force of nature you never see coming. Attractiveness, intelligence, charm, humor, experience and eccentricity all neatly packaged together. It takes you by storm. No amount of preparedness can protect you. It’s all-knowing and wise -anticipating your next move even before you know you’re going to make it. Hurricane Veronica. She’ll destroy everything she comes into contact with. Your life, your happiness, your innocence and then some. Your heart is just a victory belt; proof that she came, saw and conquered. She’s stronger with every conquest. Calculating and selfish. If blue is what you want, blue is what she’ll be.
“but the white picket fence!” you almost shout as you tear it apart, “wasn’t it supposed to protect me? wasn’t it supposed to keep humanity’s ugliness out?” you almost shout. The world stops spinning for a fraction of a second, appalled by your naive innocence.
and then you realize the picket fence would have kept the boogieman out, if only you’d seen past his sparkling clothes and colgate smile. but you didn’t You let the boogieman in.
so with your tail between your legs, you pick up a hammer and some nails and start to rebuild your white picket fence.