Figures.

People come, people go. The entirety of my life seems to be full of elevator relationships. They end at the lobby. I think I have a friend, and woosh. They're gone. I'm gone as well. There's a certain sadness you are bound to feel, but after a while, you learn to get used to it. You get used to spasmodic pain and you think about all the things that went well in that short elevator ride. My only foulweather friend has been my solitude. All I see around me is the sky. But I like the sky. The sky reminds me of every good thing that happens. The small drops of dew that I live for. I went on a school trip to Bangalore for a week and two days. Everyone else in class was happy and laughing and enjoying themselves. Me? I just sat on the side and wrote poetry in a cheap ten rupee notebook. Pulp fiction, if you please. It's enlightening. I read a book the other day called the The Short History Of Nearly Everything. It made me feel small. It made me feel powerful. My existence is an oxymoron. People tell me I'm dramatic. People tell me I try too hard. That's precisely why I've given up on them. I have nothing left here but twenty pages in the notebook. I read a story about a couple who travelled the world, came home, and shot themselves. They left a note saying "we've had our fun, why wait?". It reminds me of Mary by Kings of Leon. Don't ask me why. There's a lot of pent up emotion in my head that I need to let out. Wouldn't it be fun?