goodgod
I've been waking up each day on this break to the sun blinding me through my window. My eyes gaze blurrily at the clock, not registering the exact time, but the rough numbers as to when I should roll out of bed and begin my day. There are things to be done scratching lazily at the back of head, pushing me gently. But sadly not enough for me to actually do them. A forever ending doom sits comfortably in my mind of the upcoming exams. I haven't studied. I haven't even touched the bio textbook since I put it down last Friday. It's like a volcano planted on the edge of my vision. Eventually it's going to erupt in my face.

But until then there's nothing I can do.

I've never been one to make a time table, keep an agenda, and stick to plans. My minds usually taken up by more important things. I was called "creative" when I was little, "a day dreamer" when I grew a little older, and "immature" to this day. It's funny how things work like that. Little kids run around all the time, speaking of riding Unicorns and saving princesses from castles buried far in their creative minds. Parents look on fondly and strangers smile at past thoughts of being that young. As that kid grows older they receive A+ on their story writing assignments, blessed for their "imaginative and inventive story lines”. But when the kid reaches a certain age, it’s as if a stamp is slapped on their forehead, reading; GROWN UP.

And so as a grown up they’re expected to be mature, intelligent, and understanding. All previous make believe stories forgotten, drowned in a river. But there’s some “grown ups”, such as myself, who spend hours in the bathroom, washing the stamp of their forehead until the skin is red and raw. They’re not ready to let go of their make believe world that brings them so much comfort. There’s nothing wrong with sitting at a train station and watching the people go by, making up stories about each one. The woman with the long black hair was single, but had a man who loved her more than anything. She just hadn’t found him yet. And see that man over there, the one with the backwards baseball cap? He wanted to leave the city; he preferred the small town life and aspired to own a farm with sheep, no wait, pigs.

It’s not the world keeping you on the outside. It’s you not wanting to be on the inside.

And as I roll over, stretch my arms above me as if reaching for something I couldn’t live without, my mind slips to you. Were you in New York right now? Or coasting between venues. Were you lying in your bunk writing endless one-liners, or maybe today was the day you wrote another personal ad set to background music? Because, like you said, nice boys don't write good stories or sing good songs.

I stop myself before my mind drifts too far back into your life. I shouldn’t be doing this. It’s really none of my business. I only fell into your emotional waterfall by accident, no one pushed me. I just stumbled on a lose rock, missed the branch as I fell. I’m not drowning, don’t worry about that. I’m just floating in the same spot, your emotions crashing around me and occasionally splashing me. I have a boyfriend now, and it’s better than anything I expected. It feels wrong to plaster your pictures over my wall and websites.

Late at night everything about you is an orchestra. And I am the conductor.

So why won’t you leave my mind? I read the article about you awhile ago. And I cried. But it’s not your fault. It’s mine. I’m one of those “grown ups” who can’t let go. I’ve got my real life, with real friends, and real problems. And then there’s the make believe, that’s not quite make and more believe. Do you see what I mean?

Somehow this turned into a letter about you. That will never send.

The bed’s cold. The blankets are tossed aside and I guess that’s a sign for me to get out. Like the waves throwing a crashed ship onto the sand. I have projects to finish, textbooks to ignore, and that bag of Cheesies that I brought but didn’t really want. Cheesies for breakfast?

That’s classy.