Every morning, a boy would wake early to travel to the stream to fetch water. Every morning, when he would peer across the stream, there was a girl on the other side who, too, would wake early to travel to the stream to fetch water. No matter how many times their gazes met, they could not connect. It was as if they were as separate from each other as they were from the outside world.
Why should he believe in love when he grew up not seeing its example?
Why should she believe in love when she grew up without opportunity to feel it?
Every morning, they would wake early to travel to the stream to fetch water. Every morning, they would peer across the stream at each other, believe they felt nothing, and return to their respective villages where kids would play, young adults would sew and sow, and old adults would paint the portraits of those at play or work, or of anyone with the patience to stand still before them.
He didn’t care to pose for portraits for they always painted his soul half empty.
She didn’t care to pose for portraits for they always painted her as if she did not exist.
Whatever I Feels Like Writing 