Old Days

    Being there, in that place he knew so well, so well that he had never even realized he missed it until right then, he remembered those times, so long ago, when love was so much easier.
    When with a simple sharp object he could rest his heart knowing that the whole world could eventually read, there, her name in sleazy lines, carved in trees and desks and anywhere he would've seen fit. Honestly, any place where he spent more than a couple of minutes would spark in him a need to do such engravings. He admited to himself that they happened with generous frequence.
    It was hard to point out what had changed so much since then. It did not seem so long ago.
    In fact, nothing else but that seemed to change, at least in his, still primitive and uncomplicated eyes.
But something did cleary change and he could not single out anything in particular.
    No longer did those acts of pure inocence and selflessness had an impact beyond ordinary repulsion.
Not even that many actually managed to stay imune, and resist the consequences of growing older. Most of these, the ones that still thrive, are usually of poor taste and copious creativity.
   
    Grown up love was definitely not an idea he held dear. To him, just the mere sensation of presence from the one he trully adored could turn his most common day into pure heaven.
    And he did not even believe in such religious ornament. Being this heaven so much better than earth, how could he really take this idea as even plausible.
    How could any Paradise be any better than that in which he lives everyday?