The Hard Way

Earbuds in his ears, he turned up the music to near maximum. Maybe if it were loud enough he wouldn't be able to think. With as much on his mind as there was, an empty void is better than the reality he built for himself.

When did doing the right thing become so hard? Why did he always have to take things so far that he had to take drastic measures to do what comes so naturally to everyone else? When did he lose the concept of normality?

He stood up from his seat on the concrete as the bus pulled up and hit pause. Dropping a token into the slot, he made his way to the back and sat down. He hit play and ignored the looks from the other passengers, startled at the volume of the hard rock music they could hear quite clearly.

The music wasn't working. Despite his "pedestrian face", the tough face he put on when he didn't want to be bothered, his heart was breaking on the inside. He'd been a fool and now he must pay for it. Why was he so quick to love? More importantly, why was he so quick to destroy the little good in his life?

He stood, pulling on the cord to signal his stop, and stepped up to the door. Almost home. Maybe the tv would distract him enough to forget for a while. Even a little while would be bliss. The doors opened and he stepped out, blinking as the low evening sun hit his face. He turned and began walking the last leg of his journey home.

Thoughts still creeping in, he cast his eyes to the ground. Why did he push her away? Shame was an almost physical force, pushing his head down in sorrow. Only one day and he already missed her. But he'd been through this before. He'd get through it again, wouldn't he? And it was for the best, wasn't it? He didn't want to get through it. That would be too easy and he didn't deserve easy. Why couldn't he be normal?

Why can't I be normal?

A song came on he hadn't heard in years. Turning the volume up even more, thought finally started to drift away.

Even the Best Intentions

I poked my head into the window of your office and there you were. If you were anyone else, I wouldn't remember a damn thing about you, but for some reason, I can always recall every detail.

Your curly black hair was tied back into a pony tail, as it always is when you have to wake up early for work. You were in blue jeans and a zip-up sweater, bright green t-shirt showing underneath. The sweater was just snug enough at your chest to accentuate your breasts, but for once, that's not where my attention was focused.

You turned toward me when I said hello and when my eyes met yours, everything else was lost to me. Your wide, dark eyes struck me like a punch in the chest. Have they always been so stunning?

I must have sounded the complete fool because from that moment on, all I could focus on was your eyes. Deep, dark brown pools, they pull me in, almost hypnotically. You are so beautiful. You turn away and for that moment I take you in.

I know those jeans. I've always liked them. They remind me that even a white girl can have a nice ass. Is it just me or have your breasts always been that big? It's difficult but I bring my eyes back up as you turn to look at me again.

You're not wearing make-up. I never thought you needed any. Your features are so sharp, and make-up would just hide your true beauty. Your slender neck is a surprising point of interest to me. It's simply... perfect. Your eyes start to draw me in again.

A thought at the back of my mind tickles the edge of awareness. I have work to do. It seems the hardest thing I've ever done but I say goodbye and go back to my work, the image of you burned into my vision.

So much for getting over you.

Rain

Is it you I want
Or just the notion of
A heart to wrap around
So I can find my way around?

But A Moment

"Don't send it."

"Why not?"

"She's getting tired of you."

"She says she isn't."

"You think she'd tell you? Are you an idiot?"

"It's just a simple question. Yes or no. That's all."

"If she answers, which she won't, you are not going to like the answer."

"I might. You never know until you ask."

"I'm telling you, don't send it."

"I'm sending it."

"Who do you think you are to her?"

"I'm her friend."

"You're nothing. Less than nothing."

"That's not true."

"You know it is. Why do you keep sending those messages? Because you want to see her. You want her to be all smiles and happy to see you so you'll feel better about yourself. You know everyone plays the happy friend to your face."

"What are you trying to say? Just come out and say it."

"You don't mean anything to her! Maybe you did once, but not anymore! Stop trying to act like you haven't screwed everything up! You have a chance, a small one, to make things right. You need to take it."

"And what is that?"

"Start now by not sending that message."

"But..."

"Shut up and delete it. You know I'm right. You spoke to her three times this week already. How is that not enough for you?"

"I'm lonely."

"You're going to spew that excuse every chance you get, aren't you?"

"It's true."

"Get over it."

"I'm sending it."

"It's your funeral. You're the only one between the two of you with something to lose, and you'll lose more than just her. You think he'll stick up for you?"

"He'll take the side of what's right."

"You think that's you? Really? You really are an idiot."

"I'm sending it."

"Fucking idiot."

I Do That A Lot

I teared up a little reading my book today. Perrin, a lead character, had just learned that his family had been killed. He showed little emotion of any kind, moving on to other pressing issues at hand. That is, until his love, Faile, decided that was enough. I'll just let the author do the talking.

"I have had enough," she announced. Perrin frowned as she stood and came around the table to him. Seizing his head, she pulled his face into her midriff. "Your mother is dead," she said quietly. "Your father is dead. Your sisters are dead, and your brother. Your family is dead, and you cannot change it. Certainly not by dying yourself. Let yourself grieve. Don't hold it inside where it can fester."

He took her by the arms, meaning to move her, but for some reason his hands tightened till that grip was the only thing holding him up. It was only then that he realized he was crying, sobbing into her dress like a baby. What must she think of him? He opened his mouth to tell her he was all right, to apologize for breaking down but what came out was, "I couldn't get here any faster. I couldn't-I-" He gritted his teeth to shut himself off.

"I know," she murmured, stroking his hair for all the world as if he were a child. "I know."
He wanted to stop, but the more she whispered understanding, the more he wept, as though the soft hands on his head were smoothing the tears out of him.

With Faile holding his head beneath her breasts, Perrin lost track of how long he cried. Images of his family flashed in his thoughts, his father smiling as he showed him how to hold a bow, his mother singing while she spun wool, Adora and Deselle teasing him when he shaved for the first time, Paet wide-eyed at a gleeman during Sunday long ago. Pictures of graves, cold and lonely in a row. He wept until there were no more tears in him.

So much of that screamed at me, pulling emotions out from my core. Not just at the loss of his family, but at the love between Perrin and Faile. The story up until this moment had the two quite angry with each other and not speaking for about a week or so. This moment showed that none of their reasons for fighting mattered, not in the face of tragedy. It showed that her love for him was real, despite the horrible things he had said to her in hopes of driving her away so she would not see him die, or die herself trying herself trying to avenge him.

There's so much more I'd love to put here but I would end up having at least half the book posted if I don't rein myself in now.

I wish there were someone who loved me that much. Someone who would hold me when I cry, and tell me when I need to be. Someone who would cast aside the frightfully horrible things I said and did to hurt her, intentional or not, when something of a greater importance came about. A girl I could do the same for without being a creep for loving her too much when she does not share the remotest part of that love for me.

But that is a tangent I do not intend to continue on. I just wanted to share this with the few (and dwindling) readers I have.

An Inconvenient Truth

Tears come when they come. They wait on no man.

Stop Me

How important is it to you that you talk to someone on a daily basis? I mean more than just the inane chatter you find at work or at home. I'm talking about real conversation. Talk that means something.

Am I the only person who seems to need that on a daily, or at least a regular basis? Why doesn't the human interaction I get at work and the little I get at home provide at least a little satisfaction? Why doesn't quench some of the thirst I have for human contact?

I guess it's because I've always held my close friends higher than anyone else, including my family. If I don't get to see my close friends on a weekly basis, at the very least, I get depressed. It doesn't even really matter all that much what we do, as long as I'm there with them.

I've gone off on a slightly related tangent. Yes, having that time once or twice a week to be WITH my close friends is extremely important to me, but I'm talking about something a little different. I'm talking about my interaction with them between the weekends, in the days where we can't hang out together. Am I the only one who needs something there, something small but real, to make the week bearable? I can't be, can I?

It takes effort from me, real effort, not to send messages and call people every day of the week looking for conversation. I know no one wants to hear from me so much and I know I'm doing more harm than good just by trying to contact these people as much as I do, but not trying is unbearable. Simply unbearable. I'm driven by hope. Hope that someone will talk. Hope that maybe they will make me feel less lonely. Hope that they can make me happy.

But that is a lot to place on the shoulders of others, especially when they are my burdens to bear. I will never be happy with simple conversation, but that won't stop me from trying. From hoping.

I guess the best thing I can do is to stop. Stop messaging. Stop calling. Stop asking. If people want to talk, to hang out, to see me, they'll ask. The more I ask, the more my heart is torn by rejection.

And it's no one's fault but mine.