All the world's a stage.

Its that person you want to hate, but you cannot. They're too much like you. At one time, I felt complete. My purple streak poked out of my short red hair and all you ever saw plastered on my face was a smile. But you see, the time I was complete was a time that I wasn't myself. When someone dies, people expect a month or two for people to get over it. They don't imagine that it takes a year to eat at your sub-conscience, then a few more years to eat at your flesh. People forget that its the little things that make us the way we are. The old boyfriend shirts we cut up from years ago. The purple streak in your hair that you held on to for dear life. Jeans. Flip flops. Zombie Audrey Hepburn. Sup. A bruised ego. If I could take back some of the things I've said, some of the time I wasted, I would. Bridges were burnt since then and I cannot repair them no matter how hard I try. I ran away one time. It was all I ever wanted. Yet somehow, I couldn't manage to escape my problems. My growing hatred has turned to sorrow but my pride won't let it go. Funny how the thing that brought me to that new place was the reason I left. Seasons change and we are growing old. Pain is so constant we've have come to not even acknowledge it. Some days, I'd rather just sleep. And fly. And dream. A phone call could have changed every thing. A nod. A smile. So many friendships wasted. Because of you. Because of me. Needles were pushed through our body parts as a sign of our ability or inabilty to grow up. I'm not sure which. We inhaled until the world muted itself and we were left with nothing but our own inner thoughts. I remember sitting in your spot looking at your back yard. With every cloud of smoke I inhaled everything became brighter and details became unimportant, or more important. I'm not sure which. The world we live in has so many set backs built into it, setting us up for failure. And while our friends all have the time of their life, we stay in the same spot searching for answers. Yearning for acknowledgement. I know there is more than this. There has to be. Its so simple for us to forget. One little scene or even one person can bring you back. You say you're making progress, but now its a big mess. You know its cold this year. The time might have been worse but it felt so good to indulge in it. So good to allow it to overcome me. Close your eyes, inhale, pretend you're not coming back to the same source several times in a row. Pretending is natural now. Remember how easy it used to be? Remember how you could channel it all into eloquent imagery? Its that split second when you realize everything you thought you knew was the opposite. Its that exact moment when the only thing you want to be compassionate about, you can't. Someone born deaf wanting to sing. The blind wanting to paint. Being spit on in your time of expression. You cannot love any person or thing, just sounds and ideas. I am in love with ideas. In that last moment before sleep when your head touches your cold pillow. When you close your eyes hoping for a better outcome of tomorrow, you realize you are one hundred percent completely and utterly alone and that the world will go on as it is without you. When your world shatters no one takes a second out of their day to recognize everything you've been taught as a child and have loved for so long is forever gone. Never. Coming. Back. You show a little skin. Confidence covers the fact that in reality you have no friends, no one to love, nothing to care for. Welcome to hell. But at this point, its not even an issue. You sleep, wake, work, sleep, wake, work, repeat. Repeat. Repeat. Puke. I am small. I am warm. Its the same song, the same character, the same show, the same feeling, the same person. Always. Repeat, repeat, repeat. I want it to make sense, really I do. But you. You're just not there to understand. A monologue to an empty theatre. Voice bouncing off the walls into empty ears. Its real. Its raw. Its unheard, and its beautiful. The world continues to turn whether or not anyone else will be there to listen. Its writing notes to ghosts. Its marking out names on my wall. Its swallowing the things I can get my hands on, because they make me crazy and going crazy just feels so much better than whatever this is. Open. Exhale. Breathe me. Use me. Hold me. This is what I am and if you can't make sense of that, that is okay. Because I can't either. Its so many little cogs and gears inside my brain, bumps on my skin, beats in my heart, adrenaline in my veins. Every single second that is me. None of you will take time to figure out. Polaroids of strangers having fun, lights, smiles. Such things that make you happy but you don't know why. Memories of the salty wind blowing through your hair with not a soul sharing in your collective thought. Utterly alone. It's all a lie. Remember a time when it was real and it was honest. Hold on to that until your hands turn white and start bleeding. Push an unmovable force until you realize your body is shaking and your face is covered in tears. They will applaud you. That's all you've ever wanted anyway. Recognition. Take your bow and repeat. Repeat, repeat, repeat. Scene.