White yogurt that was tainted through sweet blueberry daggers and granola rocks. Topped off with a silver spoon whose luster had since dulled; guarded, containted, restricted by an innocent green bowl. A cold and bitter cup of grapefruit juice rested nearby. It towered over the bowl but, of course, never dared to come closer. Such is the story of my life.1
What if this bowl were to come into contact, maybe on purpose, maybe not, with a bowl of lucky charms and milk? Maybe one bowl would be poured into the other, and then both parties would slowly turn into...2
Mush.3
But maybe it would still be tasty.
Author notes
I don't usually eat breakfast.
I haven't written anything in a while, so I just decided to do a stupid, short little exercise. (Basically a really vague metaphor, aka the kind of stuff I usually write.)
Constructive Criticism Appreciated
Comments
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Yaaaaay breakfast. Why don't you usually eat any? All the best foods are for breakfast. I can't tell what each thing in the story represents, not that I should anyway. But it's a nice story ^.^
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