Sixty Five

Sometimes, though, it get aggravating that it's never worked out.

I mean how hard is it really.
I like you. You like me.
We try it out.
I don't think it's that hard. I really don't. I don't understand, sometimes, why it is. for me. Why people get bogged down in all the 'what ifs' and 'buts'. Why is it that the ones I like can always think of a handful of reasons why I'm not worth giving a shot.

I mean
Is this it?
Am I not supposed to have what I want?
Is that it, universe?
Is this your sick plan to make me a great writer?

everything hurts. all the time.
she is lonely because she should be.
Unable to distinguish love and loss.

Is this it? Is this what I’m meant for?
Meant to be alone? Is this all one big plan?
Is this your trade?

I don't want it.

DO YOU HEAR ME UNIVERSE

IT'S NOT A FAIR TRADE.

I DON'T WANT IT.

Sixty Four

Books and cleverness. There are more important things.
Friendship. And Bravery.

It is not our abilities that make us who we are.
It is our choices.

Harry Potter.
Harry Potter was, and is, about acknowledging the good and bad in you.
What you want - What you need.
Differenciating the difference.
And making the right decision.

The right decision.

I always try to make the right decision.
I don't have much at the end of the night.
But I have the right decision.

The right decision.

It's rarely what'll make you happy.
very rarely.
But that is what a hero can do, what we're too scared to do; be selfless and give up our dreams, our wants, our needs.
Even if we deserve it more.

even if we want it more.

Sixty Three

If I were to ever commit suicide in a metro, it'd be here. Vendome.
I have spent hours upon hours here, feeling this same breeze, gazing into the tracks, gazing across at red benches.
I have lied to myself here. I have cried. I have stifled feelings. I have forced laughs, restrained myself from jumping, restrained from pushing others. I have gone numb. I have spoken aloud to myself. I have written over fourty letters; just sitting.
I have waited for nobody.
I have lost myself between 3:30 arrivals. I have listened to songs from the same iPod since grade eight. Some encouraging, some counter-productive in retrospect.
Years later, though I no longer require this station's buses for school, life brings me back. Somehow, life brings me back to this station. And years later, I am still a mess.
I still do not know who I am.
What I am capable of.

I stare at the red benches I have seen repainted at least fifty times. I listen to my iPod. I let the trains pass. I do not jump. I try to stop thinking.

Sixty Two

I don't hate you.
It'd be easier - it'd all be easier - if I did. But I don't.
I envy you.

Your vulnerability. Your honesty.
The way you throw caution into the wind
Living one life and today like it's the last.
The way you take what you want.

It doesn't quite seem fair that what I want doesn't matter most of the time.