Cheese

Sydney, Australia.

Cheese. I’ve always loved cheese. It’s no surprise, therefore, that those cheesy stereotypes of life? Yeah I just want to write all about cheese, as in the convenient literary shortcuts, not the dairy product.

I want to write about how finding myself in the crevices of the shiny ripples makes me want to triumphantly hold a can of soft drink (in lieu of beer) horizontally above my head on a wide balcony overlooking the gleaming water that I found myself in.

I want to write how his smile, his goddamn smile, is way too bright and pure for his world, heck, this universe and makes my insides (all the gory, squishy bits) do rolling ripples from the bottom up.

I want to write about how damn gorgeous our little bubble of existence is, a rainbow palette of sensations and connections and so many variations of chocolate!

But it’s all CHEESE, and I am confident someone else has written it and even more confident it’s better, more nicely descriptive than mine (with its basic, overused words) and yes, it is impersonal because they’re not my experiences. But it’s impersonal even if I wrote it because I seal it in definitions by rule of the English language, sanding away the physicality, the tangible experiences of the very thing I wanted to immortalise.

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