“Where have you been all my life?” you once asked her. You stared her in the eyes and smiled and she smiled back, a bit scared by what you just said.
You told her that you’d like to hold her hand.
“Why?” she asked.
“Because I could conquer the world… if only you’d hold my hand.”
She lay down her cup. She put it to the side of the table, then moved the ashtray next to it. Then she did the same with your cup. She put her hand on the table, palm up. And she said, “You’re brave, you know? To think that you can conquer the world with just one hand.”
I’m rather excited to tell you about my current work in progress; a novel called 2:22 AM. I wanted to share with you some excerpts, so you can let me know what you think.
One night, after he walked you to your house, he tapped his fingers against the wooden frame of the door. “Someday,” he said.
“Yes,” he said, his fingers now playing with your hair. “Someday yours will be the first face I see in the morning.”
“Why someday?” You asked, every single cell in your body dancing at the thought of him kissing you then and there.
“Someday.” He smiled and, yes, he did kiss you. “Someday,” he said the word as if his very existence revolved around it.
You dug your nose in his chest, the word resonating in your ear. You smiled. You believed him.
Someday was a lovely word.
They say the only ones who are awake late at night are the lonely and the loved. The former find it hard to fall asleep when all they have to do is dream with open eyes about their beloved. It’s almost a compulsion.
But what about the lonely? All the artists, the dreamers, the ones who hold tight to a reality that they don’t understand and want to explain?
The lonely spend their two AMs in a far different way. The nights are dark and cold, no matter the season. The lonely want to change the entire world, just so they can find a cure for their loneliness. They do so armed with nothing but hope, but no one ever said hope to be a useless endeavor. If anything, to hope means to see that even the things that don’t make any sense happen for a reason.
Life’s all about perspective. What you think, you become. If you expect to be rejected, you’ll be rejected. If you expect people to hate you, they’ll hate you…
We’re all prophets of sorts.
But how do you change the prophecy? How do you change what you decided to be true? What you’ve told yourself over and over again?
You have absolutely no idea what people think of you.
It’s simply a matter of perspective.
Come think of it, you’d prefer to be hated rather than forgotten.
Who said that the urge to destroy is a creative one?
Sometimes you want to destroy. You get so angry at yourself, at the people around you, at all the dumb stupid strangers you never met. You get so angry that you want to smash something. You want to set the world on fire and watch it burn.
But then you realize that it wouldn’t change anything.
What’s the point?
Nobody cares anymore. That is our tragedy.
Hell is being here all by yourself, staring at the same walls for days on end.
Hell is being here, alone among so many people who don’t know you, who don’t understand you, who don’t want to…
You have become your own shadow.
You are in hell.
And have been in hell for so long that nothing scares you anymore.