Unrealistic thoughts kept invading her mind. They were ridiculous to contemplate, yet gave her an incomparable sense of elation. This hope that she continually fed and cultivated had a peculiar ebb and flow that carried with them her mood. She enjoyed cherishing fantastical notions of what she was going to do. Her future dream career was to enable her to balance the delicate task of fulfilling the selfish desire everyone has of self elevation. She would rise above all the rest and look down upon others from her lofty seat. From this position she could do good for all those suffering below her. She would be reverred, almost worshipped. And while all this was going on she would maintain a belevolent distance, forcing those that wanted to know her away. Her role in the world would take her to many countries, would create change and reform in governments and people alike, and she would be remembered throughout history. When moments like this arrived, she would thank the particular artist that sparked these thoughts, for these ideas were usually preceded by inspiration from her favourite texts, compositions, or frames.
She didn't believe in love. Or to be precise she believed that love was a thing so rare, that all the examples of it you are presented with in life, was not love. This belief was a practical asset to have in order to achieve all her wild desires. With her refusal of love she believed that she was already of a higher calling. Distractions of this sort was a hindrance. Why would the well educated mind of an objective and formalist woman want to be tainted by the passions of love? But it was not just this. She truly believed that love was not a thing that rarely existed. It was all about companionship and convenience. The union of two people could never be whole or perfect. It is unnatural for a person to tie themselves with the notion that their partner was on the same level as them. How is it possible in a world of over six billion people that the two that should be together, the two that would humble the love between Dido and Aeneus, would ever meet? Very slim. Those that do delude themselves that they are in love with their partner are only exaggerating the idea that they are comfortable and happy together. They enjoy their company and find comfort and solace in the idea that they can share each other hopes, dreams and lives. This in itself is a great and noble thing, but not to be mistaken for love. Would that person sacrifice all their friends and family at the click of a finger? Would that person murder, rape and rob with no qualm at all? Would they give up all the ideals and ambitions that they themselves have held dear all their lives and form the very essence of their being? Of course not, for this is not love. Only when love takes hold can the complete abbandonment of the self begin.
She was with her friends and decided for the time being to give up these thoughts. When her friends addressed her, she didn't respond. It was their eventual annoyance with her frequent day dreams that snapped her out of it.
"Sam! Are you still there?" inquired her tall, slightly hump-backed friend, Rosie. Sam looked away from the grey offices of Victoria Street towards the delicate and beuatiful features of Rosie.
"Sorry", said Sam.
The topic of conversation between the three girls, Sam, Rosie and their other friend, Jen, was of the style that friends have after not seeing each other for quite some time. The subjects changed as quickly as the speaker, as they all jostled for position in discussing events of little importance between them as a whole but of great significance for the individual. News was passed over briefly and analyses darted from quick summations to dismissive laughs. It was all very light and frivolous. They just met minutes ago at Victoria Station and it was not until they walked down Victoria Street and entered a pizzeria that they could settle and recover the subjects of brief discussion earlier for a deeper re-evaluation.
Before they got to the restaurant Sam was caught by the attractive features of a smartly dressed man, walking past them. His one raised eyebrow and slightly parted lips that still maintained the form and function of a pout had the visual presentation of arrogance. This annoyed Sam as she frowned and held the door open for her friends. They were already in, but Sam still stood there. She kept her gaze upon the man, for she now noticed a fascinating resignation exuding from his eyes. The submissive glaze that shone from his eyes was such an intriguing conflict with his arrogant pose and step that she remained there staring. When he passed she also noticed the white bumps of his knuckles as his very tight grip on his umbrella revealed a tension that was most visible in the white/red/white/red/white/red/white of the pulsating blood in his hands.
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