My candle

I have this Christmas candle by Glade. It's a really Christmassy candle and smells of apple and spice. Brilliant on the olfactory nerves. It's the kind where you suddenly expect to look out the window and see snowflakes. Trouble is, there are no snowflakes in Malta, so I had to fix the sticky kind to my window. It's not the same, but it's got to work. I also keep thinking of pictures. I cannot draw to save my life, but I can picture things in my mind, things which would make an artist toil to achieve. There is a small child looking out the window, with a chiaro scuro effect. It's dark inside, but it brightens up out there. It's like from gloom to gay, from doom to day. No I am not obsessed, I am not having delusional thoughts, I am not schizoid or psychotic,or hearing voices, just very much into art. And art allows us to interpret pictures of this kind. Of course it depends how you perceive the pictures. What one perceives as such, another will perceive as something else. But it is all so peaceful. It is all so calm, but not cool, nor collected. It's calm, and warm, but still not collected. I wonder why. Maybe I know why. And it's not my fault. Not even my parents' fault this time. If I were a whore with multiple arrests on my shoulder it would be easier then being me, not a whore and without arrests. If I wanted to visit Jack the Ripper in jail, it could be arranged. Even paying a visit to the Pope would be easier to arrange. I can only console myself with the knowledge that it's not my fault, that however hard it is I am going to knock on all doors and pull all strings. It's not a question of me being broody. Hell no. It's just that sometimes we cannot help but love. We love with our hypothalamus and we have no control over that. The human brain is a complex organ to deal with, all the more so when we're dealing with something over which we have no control. So the Glade candle will have to do. For now.