So I keep a little black book with me. I write and I write and I write. Most of the time, inspiration is drawn from people that I see while I'm at lunch or something. Sometimes it's about me and sometimes it's completely fictitious, made up from my head. Sometimes it gets mopey. They are all really short. Most don't have any development plot wise, they are just snapshots in my brain. They are like songs that don't rhyme. Anyway, I've decided to start publishing some of the stuff I write. I'll take any criticisms or thoughts, just be gentle; these are first and only drafts. Without further ado:
People can't hurt you when they're little tiny dots. You can say or do anything; you can be anyone. Your lights can shine bright-- as bright as you would like them; strobe them, if you please. High above them or miles away, the faceless being's arrows can't touch you. It's when they say 'hi' or crazy things like 'i'm sorry' or 'i miss you' that it starts to hurt. That gnawing, twisted feeling that bring to mind mistakes and alienation. No.
They must remain faceless and they must remain on the horizon. Arms length is too close.
By now you're calling me a cynic: sad and alone. "Obviously dealing with feelings in the most unhealthy way possible," you'll say. And maybe it's true, you're probably right. But you are all walking around together; together and miserable. Meanwhile, I just sit up here, looking at all of you.
And look at you.
Funny little beings, perpetuating your existence until it's finally out of your control. You're so far away and your problems look so small from here. You're all dots and that's fine.