Suddenly, I saw a rainbow peeping through the clouds. If only I could fly, I would wing through the blue horizons. Looking at my new nephew, I felt my ovaries start to rumble. Memories of balmy breezes, coconut trees, and succulent mangoes tease my mind. It was too hot to touch with my bare hand. Playing with knives was once a favorite pasttime.
Suddenly I exhaled the deep breath I had been holding.
If only I could breathe normally again.
Looking at how far I've come doesn't compare to seeing how far I have to go.
Memories of simple joys are hard to hold these days.
It was too crowded in my brain which never sleeps.
Playing with fate is my new hobby now.
Suddenly, I aged beyond the world's view of "youth."
If only I could have remained within the boundaries of being 22 years old.
Looking at photos of an innocent, long-forgotten visage makes me remember.
Memories intrude to draw a melancholy sigh, heaved deeply from my chest.
It was too long ago and I am a confident, beautiful woman now.
Playing with youth is for the young; I do not wish to go back. I want to go forward and see what my future brings! :)
Suddenly, I remembered I had to get ready for something else.
If only could meet with posters F2F, I could reconcile any discrepancies between what is said and done.
Looking at the stars, I realize how insignificant I am in the cosmic scheme of things.
Memories of My Melancholy Whores sucked so I threw the reading against my bedroom wall.
It was too cumbersome to lug to the shore
Playing with toes usually elicits a chuckle and a wiggle.
The hero and heroine of "Memories of My Melancholy Whores" are a 90-year-old man and a 14-year-old girl, both nameless, who meet periodically in a room in Rosa Cabarcas's brothel - "the theater of our nights," the old man calls it - and, more constantly and more vividly, in his fevered imagination, where the curtain never comes down. The nonagenarian narrator is the latest in an illustrious line of cranky, obsessive García Márquez geezers, of which the most memorable, perhaps, is the romantic madman Florentino Ariza, whose determination to woo and win in his 70's the woman who spurned him in his 20's is the perpetual-motion machine that powers "Love in the Time of Cholera." But the writer was only in his late 50's, a mere pup, when he invented Florentino Ariza and granted that elderly fool for love the belated fulfillment of his desire. These days, García Márquez needs a dirtier, older dirty old man just to satisfy his insatiable taste for novelty, his lust for sudden and unforeseeable accesses of meaning, his itch to probe the mysteries of last things