“What is that the hundredth book you’ve read?”

My throat is closed so tight and I can’t speak. It’s not even that, there are those times every once in a while where you just can’t speak. A vice. It’s one of those things that no matter how hard you try to do it you are mentally blocked, most times because you are so filled with emotion. I can’t pretend not to care anymore because I do. So here, where I should come back with a witty remark I feel alone and hated. Tears sting my eyes and my stomach clenches shut. I close my eyes suppressing tears.

So I find myself doing this more then I used to, tearing up. At random intervals I just want to burst into tears. Don’t get me wrong I realize that I have nothing to cry about. There are people out there who have been through so much worse, trust me I realize this. It’s just the loneliness. The bare thing that I call my life that is torn just the slightest bit, its just like when a whistle is set at such a high pitch that you can’t really even hear it but that makes it constantly in your consciousness. I don’t have a best friend. I don’t have a boyfriend. I just drift from mediocre group of friends to mediocre group of friends. Not that they couldn’t be my best friend but its like there is an odd number. Everyone has there best friend and then there is me; the girl that is just sitting in the background blending into the walls, completely and totally quite.

So we all know there is no such thing as time travel. But there is such thing as being so caught up in the moment, smiling so broadly that the sun spins and sinks below the deepening horizon. That is the closest thing you can get to evading seconds, minutes, hours, days, months, years. Which is cruel really. That when life is miserable – which it’s not – the time inches by like a sluggish worm, but then when we are feeling so ecstatic that you could just go through life in this ignorant bliss then time decides to elude the hands on the clock. Or is this unfair? Or is this in your best interest? If the joy was present for longer then it would stop being something to relish. That is up to the universe to decide. No one can know everything. That’s for the best though.

So time passes slowly. For whatever reason whatever out there chooses.

So I sit watching the only patch of sky you can see out the window: The white flawless clouds on the verge of rain. I close my eyes and let the lyrics playing off my computer carry me. Please let it rain. In the storybooks it is always used for foreshadowing, the foreboding clouds, the bloody fight scene. In real life people describe it as cold and wet. Rain, for me, is serene, the washing away of emotion. It is one of those things in my life that fills my heart to the brim with love but also makes me want to cry, one of those beautiful tragedies that you cherish.

So, I love how the rain looks from my bed – the bed that I moved specifically to this spot so that I could see out of the window, out to the stars. If you think about it that is my life story, looking out and away from what is really there.

So, the rain, which is now falling on the roof of my neighbor’s house in sheets, almost as if it is not in motion. Then there is that educates voice in the back of your head saying that it is moving, and you know it is because as it hits the shingles the droplets of the droplets go flying in every direction and falling even a little bit further to the hard concrete below where it makes speckled patterns until it is just a deeper more sad grey.

I walk down the hall. Noticing all the people – every different kind of person – streaming though this maze of hallways like rats. Sometimes that’s what I think I am, just another person being pushed through the puzzle of life with no grasp on herself. I’m not. I’m not, not only because I do things out of my own personal choices, but also because I am wearing two shirts, one read and one blue and nobody does that.

Which in of itself is a lie.

So, when I see him standing there laughing with his friend. Even though I feel like giving up the charade and kissing him, but the balance rests in the charade. I just answer far too late.

“So? So what?”