X never truly took into mind the amount of time O had still thought of her. Going about her day normally, talking as if he had never once given it thought, and that if he did it was shallow at the most. But the reality was that he thought about her everyday. Even if he did'nt think about her during the hours of the day, there was always, always, that period of time where he lay silently in his bed and imagine it all. Imagine everything that they had used to be, the kisses, the hugs, the moments, he would even look back on the times of pain and wonder to himself could it have been prevented? Could he have done somthing that would have kept her love, could he have been a stronger person for her? Constantly questioning himself, his actions. The problem was that he had done everything with X on his mind, money would come, "would she want somthing?" Time would come, "I hope we can do something" Restlessness would come, "I wish I was with her now".
O had been the older of the now seperated couple and had felt that he must be responsible one for their sake. The things she wanted, he could'nt want, too young he thought to himself. He would be the happiest person in the world, waiting for X. Because to him X was worth it. Probably a contributing factor to the end of their story, was the fact that his morals weighed heavy on O. Drugs are a never, he could'nt imagine the sight of giving into a poor and disgusting habit, even if many friends and family had invited him to try something new. He would always do his best to talk his friends out of going into such a habit, and if and when they did, he felt he had faild them as a friend. Alcohol, one of the few things that O had hated in his life. O knew many who would "just have a few" and could "hold their liquer" and from his expierance no matter how little was involved it made a fool out of a person. His step father having been an alcoholic and his father had also had problems of his own, drug and alcohol problems. Alcohol, a fools drink that turns fools into brainless and thoughtless idiots, he hated alcohol with a passion.
O was by far not a musical genius, or even an adept. Hardly able to play chords on any intrument. But writing lyrics was easy when his thoughts were of X unable to ever truly hear the music he had written about her, he was always able to hear it in his mind. Every delicate note, gently played and in beat. Everytime he saw X his lyrics would come to mind. Lyrics being the larger part of his writing, he also wrote letters, and poems. Most delivered, quiet afew not,
(Too tired, I'll write and edit this P-O-S later.)
