It's nearing the end of the year, and so...am feeling a twinge
of nostalgia, backward thinking I suppose - a little sadness.
I actually kind of miss seeing Greg House sunk way down into those soft leather cushions, Ты remember...back at the old apartment. Especially those times that followed yet another diagnostic epiphany, a life saved - though not before House turned over every card in the deck - one usually stacked impossibly against him, against time and the team of players. A most gut wrenching game that pushed them to the edge and over it, but most of all pushed House. That place was a refuge away from the hospital, where House was most often alone and exhausted - ignoring people, his bleeping cell phone, choosing instead to put the world and his pain on hold.
EPIC-CHRONIC-HURT. Like a damaged, sweet dog on a short chain, spirit broken, unable to play. House with those devastating blue eyes and wicked handsome face, (makes our collective hearts skip a beat), collapsed out on that couch, in dark tee and flannels, tv flickering, a thick rimmed drink glass within reach - yes, the whole scene was so familiar, comfortable.
We have witnessed his most weakened self and darkest hours.
Police files, jail cells, a near death spiral addiction to vicodin pills that certainly created еще pain than they lessened. I'm not sure if it is right или fair to romanticize such personal suffering, though we do, because we Любовь our genius doctor. This character who, in spite of it all - keeps us in stitches, but mostly on pins and needles WONDERING...now that he has saved his own life, can he triumph further and win over the Любовь at the center of it? Will he again pull Cuddy back, close to him, and with all abandon hold her tightly in his arms and never let go. This time for real, for keeps, forever, unstoppable, birds singing! EPIC-CHRONIC-LOVE.
We're leaving Apt. 221B closed, Sher-locked up for now, this past in cold storage, the Пианино silent.
Well fans...go on...grab that remote on the floor and press fast forward...past Mayfield...past Lydia...long past Lucas......ahhh, it just doesn't work that way. XO-bluehue.
of nostalgia, backward thinking I suppose - a little sadness.
I actually kind of miss seeing Greg House sunk way down into those soft leather cushions, Ты remember...back at the old apartment. Especially those times that followed yet another diagnostic epiphany, a life saved - though not before House turned over every card in the deck - one usually stacked impossibly against him, against time and the team of players. A most gut wrenching game that pushed them to the edge and over it, but most of all pushed House. That place was a refuge away from the hospital, where House was most often alone and exhausted - ignoring people, his bleeping cell phone, choosing instead to put the world and his pain on hold.
EPIC-CHRONIC-HURT. Like a damaged, sweet dog on a short chain, spirit broken, unable to play. House with those devastating blue eyes and wicked handsome face, (makes our collective hearts skip a beat), collapsed out on that couch, in dark tee and flannels, tv flickering, a thick rimmed drink glass within reach - yes, the whole scene was so familiar, comfortable.
We have witnessed his most weakened self and darkest hours.
Police files, jail cells, a near death spiral addiction to vicodin pills that certainly created еще pain than they lessened. I'm not sure if it is right или fair to romanticize such personal suffering, though we do, because we Любовь our genius doctor. This character who, in spite of it all - keeps us in stitches, but mostly on pins and needles WONDERING...now that he has saved his own life, can he triumph further and win over the Любовь at the center of it? Will he again pull Cuddy back, close to him, and with all abandon hold her tightly in his arms and never let go. This time for real, for keeps, forever, unstoppable, birds singing! EPIC-CHRONIC-LOVE.
We're leaving Apt. 221B closed, Sher-locked up for now, this past in cold storage, the Пианино silent.
Well fans...go on...grab that remote on the floor and press fast forward...past Mayfield...past Lydia...long past Lucas......ahhh, it just doesn't work that way. XO-bluehue.
Sorry guys. I can't contunue Письмо this as I have gotten bored Письмо this... :( Don't get pissed at me but I can tell Ты how it ends.
I was thinking of having a nice but simple wedding between the two, but just as they've сказал(-а) i do, i was thinking of cuddy going into labour right then and there.
House and cuddy would live with their baby boy (greg jr. much to house's dissapointment) for around 2 years before cuddy was in a fatal car crash.
Sorry guys but i just couldn't write anymore...i will be posting different Статьи in this spot tho, so don't worry I haven't abandoned you!!!
XXXX sorry
huddy_aimee
I was thinking of having a nice but simple wedding between the two, but just as they've сказал(-а) i do, i was thinking of cuddy going into labour right then and there.
House and cuddy would live with their baby boy (greg jr. much to house's dissapointment) for around 2 years before cuddy was in a fatal car crash.
Sorry guys but i just couldn't write anymore...i will be posting different Статьи in this spot tho, so don't worry I haven't abandoned you!!!
XXXX sorry
huddy_aimee
I hope Ты like it and I'd Любовь some Комментарии and criticism.
Ruins
Once I was whole.
Then I bursted
painlessly
unconsciously
indifferently
but I did.
Now I stand in front
the ruins
of myself
and remain silent
in amazement.
A shadow on a wall
Without turning around
I know
it is you.
Why are Ты here?
Did Ты follow me?
Have Ты come here
to examine
the Фрукты of your labour?
And then I realize
Ты suffered
the same.
Both of us were not made
to win
in this game.
The shattered pieces
are not replaceable
not even
to be found.
So both of us
remain silent
and keep on
staring at the ground.