Like a Lynx

Wonderer

"Painting is a blind man's profession.
He paints not what he sees,
but what he feels,
what he tells himself
about what he has seen."
- Pablo Picasso

Though Hazel had seen and heard about Dallas, they had never fully met. She had heard about him from being compared to him from the past gang she was in. They had said she was mean and as sharp as a nail, nothing could get past her. Till an important thing that she had been running from her entire life, had gotten past her.
The word love. What does it exactly mean? Most spend their whole lives looking for someone to fulfill that place in their heart. Being lonely most of your childhood makes you not necessarily bear malice towards but disesteem to searching for love. You become scared of love, try to push it away because you know what it will do. Love makes you weak, vulnerable; growing up in the slums of any place, that cannot be tolerated.
As mistrusted hood could tell you, love makes you a target. Enemies look for what you are weakened too and jump on the chance to take you down.
Hazel huff as she jumps down from the moving train, her duffle bag violently pushing back against her. Her brown boots shuffling against the pebbles as she walks. Currently, she was told to head to Windrixville, supposed to be accompanied by another member of her gang but he pussied out. She didn't them them anyway, she didn't need anybody. As she neared an abandoned church, she plops down next to a water spigot. Throwing her duffle behind her she rests her head against it.
A downtime hobby of hers was always watching the clouds. She envied them, they could move freely as they watched and shape to their liking. She wished wasn't the way she was. Staring up at the clouds, her eyes begin to shut.