It's Late.

I can't sleep.

My thoughts are being consumed.

Overturned.

Overruled.

She's asleep.

I'll join you in your dreams, dear. Soon.

Next week can't come soon enough.

I hate and abhor this.

I hate the fact that love can kill you.

But I wouldn't really want to die any other way.

To die by the hand of love.

Describe

Words are half-truths.

Words can by no means completely convey the depth of what it is you feel. Of what it is you experience, tolerate, cherish, and treasure. What is the significance of such a realisation, on the weakness of the language we so steep ourselves in?

Everything we say is a lie.

How so? Are not words at the very least half truths? The core of human understanding is to be brought up on the existence of whole truths. That whole truth is what defines our conception of our surroundings. Because the natural, undeniably original, reaction we are to give to anything that does not make up of something we wholly understand, is almost always instantly fear.

We fear the barely understood paranormal. We fear undocumented 'regimes'. We fear ideologies we do not understand, or political concepts we cannot grasp. We fear the weird, the strange, the unique, and the different. We fear change.

Because we do not understand. Because all that we know of what is not our own, are half truths. Anything less than absolute truth, we treat as a lie. Is it not a support of judicial practice to swear to tell the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth? Our courtrooms cannot accept half truths. Our juries, our judges, and our executioners, cannot accept half truths.

Why then, do we not fear the spoken and written word? Why do we not fear language?

Anyone who has been passionate about anything, be it a burning love, or a cold, self-consuming hate, will understand what it is like to be chained by words, to be held back from expressing how they truly feel and wish to convey. Because they know, as do I, as do many others, I suspect, that words, are half truths.

Can you fully comprehend, experience, and probe into what it means to say I Love You? Or to see it written out to you? Can you ever fully picture what must have gone through someone's heart, and soul, as they spoken or penned those words? No, you can't. For we are crippled by our own ways of communication. We are steeped in lies. These lies are words.

By right then, you should feel fear, when someone utters the words I Love You. You should be afraid, when someone tells you what they claim to be the truth. For everything that is ever said, or spoken, is a lie.

Everything I tell you is a lie.

Rain...

... I love it. Don't you?

It's pouring outside right now. Ideal weather to cuddle up to someone on a couch, watch a sappy romantic DVD, and just chit chat the evening away... I still believe in Love, come what may... I know I always will..

We have our secrets, don't we?

The sun, moon and the stars...

You don't know what I feel for you. You don't know for sure. Maybe you suspect something. Maybe you think you feel something. Or maybe you just dismiss it out of hand. Maybe you just toss it all aside, thinking that it couldn't possibly be true. Perhaps. That it wouldn't be right for that sort of thing to happen. No, it couldn't possibly be the case, aye?

You don't know.

It's not supposed to be like this. I'm not supposed to feel this way. I had decided not to. I had decided not to let myself become like this. But here I am. Up in the middle of the night. Missing you. Wishing I could talk to you. Wondering what you're dreaming of. I shall not presume to, nor entertain any hope, that I am lucky enough to be part of your thoughts and elucidations.

I love you.

I know I do. I know it with all my heart. But I can't show it. I just can't. Not as much as I woud love to. Not as much as I should be able to. Circumstances would never allow me to. It kills me. It ruins me deep down inside to realise that I am so far removed from what you need or want in a person, that even if I could finally make you realise what it is I feel for you.. it would not be enough.

I could only ever offer you me. And 'me' has never sounded good enough.

I could look at you all day. At what little I have of you. Pictures. Conversations. Text messages. Memories. I cannot touch you. Feel you. Let you know with one caress, one kiss, what it is that I have inside me that holds you in such high regard. But that could never happen.

Not now. Maybe not ever.

We've been cut off before. But you came back into my life. I wanted you back in my life, no matter what the consequences. No matter what the situation. I would do anything to be a part of your existence. But I can't let you see that. I can't let you see how badly I feel for you. How much I would willingly debase myself to keep you.

To keep you, but not to have you.

So here I shall remain. Trapped by circumstances. Hemmed in by my own feelings. Snared by the intricate difficulties of complicated emotion. I do not know what to do. I do not know how I will ever begin to say any of this to you. I do not know if you would ever wish to hear me even explain it all.

Why would you want to hear about something you don't even know about? Why would you even want to understand something which you would probably find impossible? Why would you ever talk to me?

I love you. I wish I could explain why.

You're you. And I love you for it.

Everything to do with you, I love. I love the way my phone chirps when a text message from you arrives. I love the way my monitor lights up with colour when I see your pictures. I love the way my phone rings when you call, or miss call. I love the way the stars twinkle when I think of you. I love the way the rain patters on the rooftop when I start missing you. I love the way music fills my soul when I listen to it, as I write this about you.

But you might never know. You might never know how deep this goes. You might never know how hard it is to keep this within me and not show it to the world.

You might never know that I love you.

This is the story of you.

There is a girl.

There always is, isn't there?

She's beautiful. You all know that. If she wasn't, I wouldn't be talking about her. It is something I noticed from afar. From way beyond the normal borders of physical limitations. But how could anyone ever hope to describe it all? I know I can't.

But being the idiot I am, I'm still going to try.

I don't know how she does this to me. Simple sentences that stir things from deep within. That stir melting pots of... confusion, joy, exaltation. It is inexplicably scary, and wonderfully elating, at the same time. I never signed up for this, yet here I am. Here I am, being wound up and tinkered with by a girl.

Of course, I know why it's all like this. I've let it happen, again. I let her slip out of my life, as is her want, and I've let her slip right back in. I'm weak. I can't say no. I can't turn her away. I can't stop her from walking right in and making me feel like I'm 14 again, and wishing so hard that what I'm feeling is love for the first time.

A breath of fresh air? A rehash of reminscence and useless nostalgia? Is my view of the world so distorted by the sepia-tinted glasses I impose on myself? I do not know. I sincerely, utterly, uncharacteristically, just do not know. But I know that my life would be so much the poorer without her in it.

Beggars cannot be choosers. I cannot stop her from wanting to leave again. It is her right, after all. It is her privilege. And it is a God given privilege for me to even have her in my life. To know her, to have heard from her, to have been able to become part of her life, even if it's in the smallest capacity imaginable.. I would not have wished for anything less.

Even when the circumstances of an unforgiving world and its depressingly glaring uncertainties carried her away from me, she still remembered me. She still kept a small place within her memory, her heart, for me. When the walls of my haphazardly-built existence threatened to cave in on me, it was without any doubt that her re-emergence within my soul has re-enlivened me. To make new memories where old ones merely stood and had to be re-imagined to stay fresh within the confines of a past that had already been rewound and re-played so many times over.

How could I ever wish to distance myself from such a person? I have tried, regardless. When it seemed as though she were a tempation that I should stay away from. When it seemed as though she would be nothing more than just trouble, someone to throw me off and cast me further away from where I should be. Is that still the case now? Is that what I really want?

Just what are you to me?

I sincerely do not know. That question will have to remain unanswered for now. Maybe forever. But I do know, that I will do all I can to keep her near. As near as I am brave enough to do so. That I will fight for her. That I will die a slow death each time she says her goodbyes. That I shall be quickly reborn every time she calls my name.

I'm glad you haven't gone.

Don't ever leave.

Nice guys finish last.

It seems as though you do all you can for those that you care about. And it seems as though it means nothing to them. As though the sacrifices and effort you put in for them are all taken for granted. But you accept it, no?

You accept it as your lot in life.

Strangely, you are actually quite content with the role you play. The dependable one, the one that people turn to when they need help. The one that will always be there to provide advice. To keep them company. You keep all the secrets. You try your best to never tell lies.

But you are, for better or worse, a bus stop. Nobody hangs around for a long time. They only look for you when they need you. When they need a bus so to speak. When there is no one else to give them a ride, or no taxis to call upon. Do you complain? No, of course you don't. Because nobody would come to you at all if you did.

You accept that you are a wallflower.

Interestingly, you seem resigned to it. Almost revel in it. But then you think, what if I wasn't around anymore? Would anyone notice? Would anyone care? And the realisation hits you. It doesn't matter. YOU, don't matter. Bus stops are a dime a dozen. And you realise that's what you are. Expendable. Replaceable.

Disposable cameras. Tissues. Newspapers. You. They all have something in common. Once used up, they get thrown away.

So what do you do about it? You try to be more than just a bus stop. You try to be a tangible human being. You have your own mind, heart, soul. And you try to show it to the world, as if to say, this is who I am. But no one's listening.

No one cares. No one cares about you.

But you care so much, for so many. Would they not spare just a drop of concern for you? Just a little spittance of interest to at least give you the illusion that there is an actual friendship to be maintained? Some semblance of hope? And you wonder to yourself, how did I get here? How did I reach this point in life, to be nothing more than a doormat that's taken out when needed and then put away when all is said and done?

And you try and try and try. And ultimately realise that it is a futile effort. Nothing is going to change. People will move on with their lives. You will flit in and out, whenever needed or otherwise. And in the end, you accept it.

You smile and talk as though it's alright. You revert to what you always were. The advice dispenser. The shoulder to cry on. The dependable secret keeper. The one who gets asked out when everyone else is busy. And then you stay at home on those nights when nobody needs you, no one looks for you, and your company is not required.

Do you complain, cry, scream, show your frustration? Of course you don't. You're nice, remember?

And nice guys, always finish last.