So, I don't know. Have you thought about this?
Hi there Stranger!
I've no idea where I'm going, anyway. I am almost always, pretty lost. I mean, I am so trapped in my short term goals that I don't even remember faintly what I wanted to begin with.
A cup of coffee would be nice though.
So, like I was saying, have no clue where am going. I just run. Away from and into disasters on an hourly basis. While, for real, I don't move an inch. I am trying to be an adult, like a proper human adult with responsibilities and such. Clearly it ain't working. But that doesn't stop me from trying, lest I disappoint.
Nearly every morning, in the foggy cold, I thrust into the elevator, my warm showered skin. Forget makeup, I don't even have lip balm on. And I have no idea why I am like this, where I am headed. Smal temporary idiotic pointless tasks to be ticked off. I guess.
And there you are. Sweaty. T shirt sticking to your body. Hair drenched, in well, something. Standing tall, by yourself, waiting for your floor. Unbothered. You have the most erect posture I have seen in any human, I swear stranger.
And I am next to you. A zillion thoughts ramming through my head. None of them about you. You don't exist for me. And vice versa. We don't look at each other. We have never exchanged glances. But we seen each other. And been seen too. Without makeup and sweaty. Anxious and hungry. Depressed and apathetic.
This doesn't matter. Nothing has ever mattered, this included. This is one of those hundreds of things in life that never mattered, while we waited for things that we wanted to matter, but didn't and shattered our hearts. You know, stranger.
I am so exhausted, I cannot begin to tell you how much I want to go to bed and not wake up. Yet, there I am, ramming into you in the elevator, every damn morning.
And I am sure, you have your things too.
But, I would like to say this.
I have been so serious and meticulous all this time, I am broken. I always carry a pent up wish to be just juvenile.
Standing next to you, feeling myself breathe, counting floors, must be one of the most charmingly juvenile luxuries I have allowed myself to indulge in. It's made me feel a bit alive, a tiny bit less empty. I don't know. Let me tell you that stranger.