If We Could Only Hate.

Why? I have to know.

I guess.. I was never truly happy. I know I was meant to be happy, I thought I loved you, and that you loved me.

I did love you. (I do, still.)

And then one day it just hit me - I didn't love you. I couldn't. I was in love with an idea, the ideal man who seemed to have it all.

But I never could match up to the man inside of your head.

No.

What was I supposed to do? What can I do? You're trying to say I never had a chance. Then why did you even try?

I.. I was in love. Just not with you. With the idea of you. I'm sorry.

No. No. You can't do this. At least give me something to regret. Give me something to blame myself over. Something to point to and say I should not have done that, that I have only myself to blame. That I at least had a chance. Come on. Please.

I can't. I'm so sorry. You're a good man.. just not perfect, not the way I imagined you to be in my head.

What do you mean? Was I supposed to be perfect? Was I not allowed to do anything wrong at all? I mean, come on! You never told me I had to be perfect. At least tell me what you expected of me before I got into this!

Would it have changed anything? Would you have walked away if I'd told you this in the beginning?

No. I don't know. What does it matter? Don't you dare turn this on me.

(silence)

Well. You've certainly taken me on a damn ride then haven't you?

What do you want me to say? Yes. No. I don't know. I'm sorry. I know you're bitter. You must hate me.

No. No I don't. If only I could. If only it were that easy.

(silence)

(silence) (don't go.)

Goodbye.

Beautiful Pressure.

No, he never felt like he belonged to the Crowd at all, although no one had a say in that of course. It was a naturally pre-determined thing, you were either in it or you were not.

And yet he could not help but look at other members of the Crowd and feel like he was somehow different. They were all cool, and effortlessly so. They never made any gaffes, or if they did they were suitably and hilariously goofy, never embarrassing, and never anything to be ashamed about.

He could not help but feel like he on the other hand was doing too many things which were unpleasantly embarrassing, like that time he played football (which he was not terribly good at) and missed 3 easy shots at goal. He was sure everyone was looking at him and laughing at him. And they laughed particularly loudly at him too, compared to the other guys who made mistakes.

He never saw other members of the Crowd get into situations like that. They almost always were good at the sports they played, and would never be seen playing something they couldn't. How did they manage that?

He always felt like people were looking at him, that when they were they did so with great expectation, that when he failed they laughed their vengeful mocking laughs. One of the Crowd failing so miserably. He could never be merely mediocre at anything, for that would be considered failure in their eyes.

He felt their eyes on him always. And the pressure. The pressure to be brilliant, to be beautiful, to be wittier, and stronger, in every way superior to the others. Cause that's what it meant to be part of the Crowd. You could not be worse than the rest, you could not even be just the same as the rest of them. You were superior and you were supposed to look down on them, past your perfect nose, and twist your perfect lips with a sneer as they try to be like you. Oh no, you were nothing like the rest of them.

What They Took From Her.

She was the best of us but they changed that
they took her away from us they took her away
they took away her smiles the happy ones the sad ones
they took away her joy her life her trust in life
they took away the wind in her hair the bounce in her step
they took away her hopes her dreams her childish fears
(and replaced them with grown up ones)

and now she
cannot give and cannot take
only hurt and maybe hate

cannot love and cannot trust
a stranger to the rest of us

cannot dream she cannot dream!
no respite in worlds unseen

and now
she cannot cry not even cry!
it hurts too much to even try

and now
she rots and now she rusts
the girl who was the best of us.

And Beauty.

The beauty of the ephemeral. Beauty in all its forms. In the permanence of mountains. And in the constant motion of its surfaces, the flurry of snow or the rustling of grass. In the busker playing outside a train station, the musician in a public square, a master in the concert hall. In an early morning greeting between friends. Strangers. Between long lost lovers and family and friends. In the skies above. In the innocence of children. Of grown men and women. In the sunrise and sunset and twilight and the glow of the moon. In fireworks which come alive for brief seconds before being spent forevermore. In the calm waters of a clear lake, the reflections on its surface. In the girls with their painted faces and their lacquered nails. In the flight of birds as they move in tandem with each other, a perfectly executed dance of bone and muscle and feathers. In the flight of planes carrying the hopes and dreams of a hundred passengers, going forth to live their lives or leave their lives, the only lives they've ever known.