When did I become that person who notices the slightest change in the air. I stir my cereal and I can feel a hundred new things, without moving an inch. I think about certain mysteries and suddenly there’s magic. There’s pink flowery magic everywhere. Like an unsaid prayer answered. Like an emotion you haven’t yet named. You are aware how wonderful this feels. You like it. You are careful not to spill it around. In this case, You are me.
Everything, magnified. Laughter. Exasperated sighs. And some more laughter. Right from the oxygen you inhale, to the words you exhale. You feel the urge to scream and make everyone feel it. Road trip urges are high. The curtain unfurls and there’s a staged drama you longed to see since so long. You write about these random thoughts all the time, suddenly a muse is exactly what your writing was missing. Travelling back and forth. There’s a definite before and after now. There is a before this happened and an after this happened. A line so defined you can imagine yourself looking down at it, stepping on and crossing over.
Life is the decisions you make when you didn’t even know you were decision-making. And however obscure you might think life is, love is what will give you clarity.
I like life better when it’s a fight. Every morning I have half the heart to stay in bed and read the day away. Half my life goes in making the other choice. I try to make sense of things that pass me by during the day. The change in weather, the people I meet, the stuff I eat.
If I was with you in an elevator, if we were strangers, I’d instantly have trouble breathing. I am brushing my teeth, I am looking in the mirror, I am eating my cereal but none of this feels real. As if my body no longer can perform basic functions.
In this abandoned town, I have a purpose but that, too makes no sense. We can accuse ourselves of being blind to the soft light breaking through our hearts. Or we can embrace its warmth and fill up the empty spaces inside. Either way, it’s an ordeal.
Happiness for me runs a stipulated time. It’s unfair so I try very hard not to make sense of that. I have the urge to start my entire life all over again with certain people. Some people are just too pretty. Or maybe I am just inquisitive and want to see what happens. I guess it’s because I want to write about it. Record it. Like save a trailer so I can give people a glimpse into what I felt. But I can’t. It’s impossible to make someone feel what you feel. The questions. The answers. The leaning back and forth. The unsteady fingers nervously tapping next to you. Even when I’m with you most of my thoughts are pre-occupied, trying to make sure what I should do to not make you leave.
So anyway, I’ll go home. I’ll read Thought Catalog. I’ll laugh at the 20-somethings list Ryan O’Connell writes. When I laugh, I’ll look next to me and realize I’m alone. And just like that, nothing will make sense again.