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I opened the window because I wanted to smell life. Taste life. Feel it on my face in the form of soft wind on an autumn night. But in wanting that feeling instead of just experiencing it because it was there, opening the window became a sad activity instead of a happy one.

And when I closed the window, silence took over again, and only the soft ticking of an invisible clock was heard. The tick of the clock in my mind.

I took a step away from the window, past the shower door, glittering with droplets of water, and took a good look at myself in the mirror as I heard a plane pass overhead somewhere in the night sky. I saw a sparkle in my eyes from the reflection of the metal sink faucet, and my hair was drying, so it fell into odd curls around my quiet face.

My teeth weren't clean. I could feel that without moving my tongue over their plaquey surfaces. I was tired, and my face showed it, as it did always, with dark semi-circles of skin close underneath each eye. An image so familiar that it doesn't make a difference if someone tells me that I look tired. I always look tired.

The chapstick was in the other room, but I had no intention of moving an inch until I was sure that I was ready to go to sleep.

It was around 11:30. My father had noticed recently that I had been staying up very late. Nevertheless, I somehow manage to move myself out of my bed, my dreams, my impossible desires, and off to school, where the world was much different.

I rubbed at one of my eyes and sighed a little, listening to a song in my head and a car driving past on our street. I was thinking of him. I was always thinking of him. Pointless and not worth a moment of my time. Yet, every moment of my time has something to do with him. Whether I'm breathing or looking back at myself in the mirror, if I'm at school where the halls are like my grandmother's jewlery boxes, or if I'm at home, where i know that everything I see as familiar will one day leave me and I will cry.

I always think of him. His dark eyes like a child's, but also like an adult's. His hair of almost the same color, something I always want to think of as being soft like a flower's petal in June. Everything about him soothes me, and yet everything about him makes me uneasy and makes me want to crawl into a hole somewhere in the desert to fall asleep.

Sand. His voice is like sand. It ripples and it stands still and it trembles without movement and it flies without wings all at the same time. His voice reminds me even more of the innocent beauty of childhood, when life is plastic horses, tunafish sandwiches, and Disney movies. It's like a gravel road itching up under your feet as you and another person you've never met walk hand in hand to the park to play.

It's like that wind out the window. Everything about him is like life stored in a snapshot of the sun, bright and beautiful, but moving, changing, and prepared to let it's friend the moon take it's place for a little while as it radiates elsewhere.

It's hard to explain, but as I stand here in the bathroom, casually looking up at myself every once in a while, and as I rub my eye that hurts from being tired all the time, and as I want so badly to open that window a few steps away past that shower door that's probably still gleaming in the light with water droplets so sparkley, I think of him.

This all started with an eyelash I found on my cheek as I looked up at myself in the mirror. I looked down at the eyelash, a fallen symbol of all my eyes have seen, and I thought of him. I thought about how I should make a wish and then blow the eyelash out onto the wind. I thought that maybe I could pretend that my wish would come true, though I know it can't.

So I took the little black eyelash, in all it's innocent beauty, and I placed it on my finger. I closed my eyes, thought, and opened them, ready to set the little thing free with a gust of human air.

I moved my hand a little, and I then lost sight of the eyelash. I of course had opened the window first, but where did it go?

Then I was distrscted by the scent of the air, which first reminded me of summer, then spring, then winter. I didn't smell the rusty smell of the common autumn leaf. Not tonight. I held the scent in my lungs and let it dance playfully in my nose and eyes. Then I let it go. 

I put my nose to the screen of the window and had the sudden urge to write. Now it's past midnight and my dreams call my name.
I never thought I would ever put anything in this category. xD
Of course this isn't fiction, but hey, I didn't want to put it in non-fiction, either. They should have a category called "obsessive stalker writings". Then I would have a category for everything, now, wouldn't I?

Okay so I wrote this on October 23rd really late at night after I got out of the shower. I hope you like it, because it's the first of it's kind that I've ever written. The words just came to me, and I typed them in on my iPhone until I figured I had said enough. It's not poetry, but it's damn good.

© Bef

EDIT: Okay so dA is being a fuck and I can't put it in the category I want. Figures, eh? So I'm gonna put it in a random other one cuz I hate you.
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November 1, 2008
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