The little things

Title Appropriatley

I sit there hands clasped around my coffee that went cold hours ago.

We're just strangers with memories.

All the colours fade.

I'm an eternal third wheel.

I feel so isolated, so alone, in the vast empty spaces in my mind, though I'm surrounded by a crowd.

Where do broken hearts go?

How am I supposed to forget and let go, when everywhere there are constant reminders of you.

In fiction we as writers choose what happens, if we don't like the idea of something happening we click the delete button and it disappears, we can create the fairytale ending, but in real life, there are twists and turns and we don't have the fairytale ending, we don't cease to exist when the story is over. People die and you can't just delete the chapter or rip out the page, once it happens in real life, it's set in stone.

The sky is not the limit its just the view.

Being yourself is hard, but being a lie is harder.

I'm honest because when I lie I loose track, I loose myself, and I become nothing more than the lies I have told.

You are born to die. That's it, no more. Some sooner than others.

If everyone could see me the way I see myself, live with my memories- would anyone still love me?

Maybe if everyone hates me like I hate myself, if nobody loved me... It would be easier to leave.

Turn off all the lights, switch off the stars and block out the moon- it's night and all I want is dark.

This is the start of a new story. My story. And like a new day we must start at the beginning.

She's so new, so innocent and fragile but I know the world will soon break her.

The sky is shades of pink, yellow and orange as the summer sun sets. But the streams run with red.

This chaos is so orderly. Every person dead, laying on the floor, every bullet fired. The one piece of chaos in this order is the one person refusing to die.

Boredom. It drags on like a music piece that should've ended hours ago but never has the good sense, nor taste, to stop.

Excitement. It's a great feeling. Like butterflies tap dancing in your stomach. Until one day. The butterflies stopped.

Originally published 3rd December 2014