I'm sorry. This sucks. Badly.

That’s why I come here everyday. To see all of them. To see the same stupidity and selfishness that I find in myself. The same twisted senses of humor, the same self-absorbed outlook and the same hope.
When I look in the mirror, I see all of them. Every single one inside that face, inside those eyes, oozing out of every pore of my body. Every word I say, they’ve already said. Every thought has been thought before. And on every self-summary sheet, we all write “original”. “Unique”. Unique and original like everyone else. Situations differ, people are the same. All of us. Uniquely alike and all going towards the same inevitable demise. We will fail. We will not survive this world, and God only knows what comes next. We’ll all love and lose. We’ll all embarrass ourselves to the point where we don’t want to leave our homes. Our hovels. Our mansions. We’ll all wish and pray for something that will never come to be. We’ll all watch a loved one falter and know we’ve been there. We’ll all face disappointments, and we’ll all react in the same way. We’ll all hate, and love, and cry, and laugh, and barely be able to contain the words bursting from our minds.
Because that’s what we all are. Words. Numbers. Letters. Thoughts. Formed together to form our “unique” selves.


The letters are slow to come today. The pen hasn’t moved in what seems like hours, and the writing on the page is hardly legible. I pretend not to see as I walk past, pretend that there are no tears in my exhausted eyes. He doesn’t see me anymore anyway. I’ve become like the walls in the room he always sits in, the silent listener to his silent conversations. Usually he fills his pages with flowing ink marks, words that he will one day speak.
He’s going to go places, he writes. See things. Know things. Say things. And always, always, I believe. I believe he’s going to see the things in those places and say the things he knows. And the years go by, and the silence thickens. The broken dreams are written down, documented. And I read them. While he sleeps, I read them. I read about every thought in his head, his secrets he’s unable to tell. I read what and who he is. About how he can’t prove he exists. About how he doesn’t know if he’s real.
And pages later, his writing changes, and the dreams of speech and definitions of himself appear again.
The pen starts roaming across the paper again. The quiet movements are like the best of all the songs I’ve ever heard.
And I smile then, because I know. The little things haven’t been overlooked, because he’s been looking for them. It’s like a minor detail that shapes an entire world. Existance. Dreams. Silence.
He knows he’s there.

(I REALLY suck at writing.) (Like seriously. But I forgive myself because I felt slightly writer-ish, as happens some days, and documented in another secret blog, but today I took a risk and put it here. I apologize to your brains for making them cry.)