I met one boy who has thought so much that now I think he is capable of thinking about nothing. He doesn't care enough to tell you about it; what's there to tell after all. He doesn't care for conversation. He seems bored of the things around him - at the same time, when someone takes note of his camouflage, he responds with mild amusement.
I met another man whose thoughts never leave him. He is not big on drinking but he indulges himself when he is with us once in a while. I had hoped that that would help numb his senses but the opposite happens always. He is pelted with thoughts and words escape his mouth in the form of daunting questions with the stubbornness of a waterfall. He is an honest man.
I also met a boy who looks like the gorgeous hero from a superhero movie. He reads too- I've seen him many times in my college library. Once I saw him going back home with a copy of Persepolis in his hand and I swear my heart stopped for a few seconds. I mean, it must take a lot out of him to take his face away from the front of the mirror and put it between fat books that sell well-reasoned crap. (I don't mean Persepolis) I think it's a good idea to not have a conversation with him.
The last one is perhaps the most interesting one I have met while I've been here. He doesn't talk much, especially on text. But holds a great conversation in person. I don't know what his purpose is but his purpose sounds better than your purpose. He's a man of action. The right kind of aggressive. Quick and light footed, he easily slips into his white canvas Bata shoes, (the ones we were made to wear back in school) and asks if he can get you anything. He gets his good shirts dry-cleaned and donates pencils for underprivileged children once a week for his little bad deeds. That seems neat, for now.
"Ousep and Mariamma are not ethereally fused any more, they drift apart, but when they attain a distance between themselves, from where they cannot hear the other but still see, they drift no more. They begin to orbit each other, like two equal planets that cannot let go. The distance separates them in the bed too, but there are times when they collide, searching for flesh."
On my way I see an old despondent pedestal fan. It is made to stand in shame with its head down, facing the wall of an equally old and despondent building.
I'm at the office of Wcities. There's a flower vase on my right. It has flowers painted on it. The artist must have been pretty fucking uninspired to draw fucking flowers on a fucking flowerpot.
"Despite what you’ve read, your sadness is not beautiful. No one will see you in the bookstore, curled up with your Bukowski, and want to save you. Stop waiting for a salvation that will not come from the grey-eyed boy looking for an annotated copy of Shakespeare, for an end to your sadness in Keats.
He coughed up his lungs at 25, and flowery words cannot conceal a life barely lived.
Your life is fragile, just beginning, teetering on the violent edge of the world.
Your sadness will bury you alive, and you are the only one who can shovel your way out with hardened hands and ragged fingernails, bleeding your despair into the unforgiving earth. Darling, you see, no heroes are coming for you. Grab your sword, and don your own armor."