The price of being a gypsy woman comes at a high cost. She is the embodiment of a free spirit; restlessness is her middle name, and her last is freedom. As soon as contentment stroke her soul, the embers began to steer her in a new direction. If she was to ignore their powerful pings at her heart; surely those embers would blaze her passions into a raging inferno.
Licking at her curiousity of what could be just around the bend. The price of being a gypsy woman came at a high cost. She could not bring along those she loved for they had their hearts set on contentment. Maybe they had their own paths to travel, yet she couldn’t help but feel the loss of love found in their meetings. She wished to have them all alongside of her living free embarking on a journey of abandonment.
There, in the open meadow she lied. The sun gleamed off of her skin, and warmed her instead of a friend. A gust of wind aroused; wheatgrass met her legs, tickling her, as she grinned. She would never truly be alone for she was in the hearts of those she met along her way. She would carry a piece of those she encountered into old age. There, they could live forever together in each others hearts and this brought her peace.
Here she was, in a new place, traveling down an unfamiliar road with different enchantments, new faces, new feelings, and new hopes.
Yes, there it is again. That feeling of falling down a portal of bliss. Those childlike wide-eyed and all-accepting pupils gazed around at everything, it was ever so pristine, everything was shining with potential. She knew the feeling from which it came, she was falling madly deeply in love with everything.
But, the price of being a gypsy woman comes at a high cost. The thought danced across her mind, And for a moment the music stopped. Ever so optimistic and hopeful she dismissed it as quickly as it came. Now, it was time to dance with the faeries, mythical beings, and be apart of the magickal pristine journey she just started to embark down. Leaving the worries of what may be at stake for a tomorrow that might or might not come.
Crinthia Runyon
The Heartfelt Pen 