60 Pages for You

That's a lot of paper, and I'm sure if it's wasted or put to good use. I'll probably never know.

So there's this fucking horrible thing and it's called hope. We're all born with it. It dies sometime, really. Mine has died. It wasn't a moment; it was gradual, and then sometime last year I guess I woke up and found myself lighter, lighter, floating out of love and into apathy. Not to sound dramatic or anything, you know?

I remember that small moment on the second story of my house. I had kept your little Magic 8 for days. I don't remember why it was at my house. It was sitting in a pile of things I needed to give you. When you came over, I called you up to get your stuff. Before you came upstairs, when I was still alone, I took the 8 Ball and asked it: "Will this year be different?"

I don't believe in magic, I believe in God and the delicacy of his fingers and the omnipotence of his decisions in physics and biology.

"Yes."

I had hope in that moment. It's stupid to base your happiness on a plastic sphere filled with glowing liquid; really, really stupid.

But it was right.

I met new friends. You came back. I leave sometimes. I love sometimes. I laugh sometimes. It's an improvement from everything.

And then that time when I told you, "It's just been a bad 2 and a half years." Happiness felt so far in the past, so far in the future, nowhere in the present.

Why must you chase me and make me believe in you?

I don't wait to believe or sing or wait or hope or love or do anything except go and be quiet with nothing. I don't want to be fragile. I don't want the ups to come, prefiguring the downs.

But it's here.