The Lovers
paper lover.
Above her bed was a map. A large, discoloured, terribly vintage map. It had no markers — no indication that she had traveled, no indication that she planned to travel. There were no notes tacked on , no highlighted names, no strings connecting far off places. All that was on the map was the printed names of cities and countries; she had left no mark on the thing.
There were no photos or posters on the walls — they were bare, except for the old map. Perhaps that was why she called it a photo. Perhaps it was the 'one photo' in her room because there was nothing for her to photograph but the layout of the land.
She slept soundly only when her head rested beneath the poles. She dreamt of the places above her unseeing eyes and before her face — and though she knew it was the world she had dreamt about, her dreams felt as barren as her travel plans. When she slept under a plain white wall, all she could do was toss and turn, toss and turn. She thought again and again of how she longed to go east, to go west. Rarely did she sleep.
While awake, all she could think of was crawling back into her comfortable bed, returning to her lost dreams of the world. And once she returned, she felt whole once more.
She had nothing keeping her from exploring the globe, but she had no inclination to leave. She loved the idea of the world, yet she feared the world itself. She was enamoured with the sphere, but wanted nothing but the paper.
There were no photos or posters on the walls — they were bare, except for the old map. Perhaps that was why she called it a photo. Perhaps it was the 'one photo' in her room because there was nothing for her to photograph but the layout of the land.
She slept soundly only when her head rested beneath the poles. She dreamt of the places above her unseeing eyes and before her face — and though she knew it was the world she had dreamt about, her dreams felt as barren as her travel plans. When she slept under a plain white wall, all she could do was toss and turn, toss and turn. She thought again and again of how she longed to go east, to go west. Rarely did she sleep.
While awake, all she could think of was crawling back into her comfortable bed, returning to her lost dreams of the world. And once she returned, she felt whole once more.
She had nothing keeping her from exploring the globe, but she had no inclination to leave. She loved the idea of the world, yet she feared the world itself. She was enamoured with the sphere, but wanted nothing but the paper.
♠ ♠ ♠
This is a little different from what I usually write (though I have been writing a lot of it lately) and I'd really appreciate some feedback!