You, reading this, yes, you. I have something to tell you, will you take a minute to listen?

We don't know each other personally, hell, I don't even know your name, but I want you to know something.

I'm here for you.

Always.

Feel sad? I'll be your shoulder to cry on.
Feel angry? I'll be your punching bag.
Feel happy? I'll laugh alongside you.
Feel depressed? I'll hold your hand.
Feel isolated? I'll sit beside you.

We've been taught that having emotions is weak and that we must hide behind them, for then the world will perceive us as unstoppable, strong, like nothing can harm us. And that's just not true. Emotions, the very things that make us human, can make us monsters.

There are too many people in the world right now that just need someone. Anyone. And I am that person for you, if you ever need it.

Whatever you're feeling right now, I'm telling you, its okay and it will get better. Take that from someone who's felt it all.

I love you.

And now this is the honest truth. I'd go to work, stop off at the liquor store before work. Drink myself into an oblivion until 2AM. If I was in my day clothes if change into my work clothes. Lay on top of the bed. And when I heard the alarm all if have to do was but my shoes on.

"Bing Bing" goes my alarm.
It's 6am, time for my day to start. I let out a groan as I stretch my arms up into the air. I've gotten used to my early mornings. Realisitically, I could get up at 7:30 and still be there on time, but I appreciate the morning hours I have to myself, it's usually the only time I have to myself.

I pull myself up and sit at the end of the bed and run my right hand through my hair while I listen to the sound of semi- occasional cars and buses tour by. The buses probably contained early risers like myself, either trying to get to work or tourists making it back home, wherever their home was. We get a lot of tourists around this time, when the maximium heat goes on it's own vacation and replaced with fleecy clouds and the occasional dance of rain. This then leads me to believe that the tourists must come from colder countries if they opted out of the Summer weather we have to offer.

Then again, I can't exactly say I blame them, I've lived here most of my life and even I have the tendancy to go into a complete vampire-like state and pull over the curtains and stay in the shade and safety of my own home until the sun starts to set.

Cars are usually driven, at this hour anyway, by people that have lengthy jobs, the kind of jobs that if you call in sick more than three times a year your head was soon to be on the chopping block, heaven forbid you should ever have to ask to leave as your signficant other is in labour, you'd be shot there and then.

These people had the kind of jobs that involved working for an average pay, under a boss you'd rather kick between the legs with a pair of steel, cone- shapped studded shoes. The kind of job that meant sacrificing any sort of social life, or family, or relationship because you need the money to pay off the loan on that grotesque little apartment you have in an area where being robbed or being within a five mile radius of drugs or drug users themselves is all but very common.

I feel sorry for these people, I really do. Hence why I know I'm lucky with what I have.

Light ****** through the tall windows and the light breeze sends the satin curtain fluttering. I make the short journey from my bedroom to the bathroom with a light thud with each step, stepping on yesterday's clothes as I do. One day swore to myself that I'd end up being my own death sentence if I didn't start picking the clothes up of the floor. That I'd get my toes caught in the neck of a shirt and down I go, crack my head on the floor and who'd be there to call an ambulance? I literally bring the term 'a trainwreck waiting to happen' to an entire new meaning. I'm not sure if I should be proud, scared, or writing my own will, you know, just in case.

Flicking on the light in the bathroom seemed like a good idea at the time, again, the whole 'trainwreck' attribute didn't need to be made even more apparent by me slipping on something and killing myself. Could you imagine if, morbid, I know, I did in fact slip and die right here. The tax collector would come find me once he realised I hadn't paid my bills in three months, only to then call the police who then find me in a sorry state on the floor in my underwear with a cracked head and a big pool of blood radiating from it. Oh how very attractive.

They'd then call my family and friends and somehow come to the conclusion that I was an early bird and that I was getting ready to start my day when I had the imponderable misfortune of killing myself. Investigators would come in and look futher into the situation, see if there were any signs of 'foul play' or was it really just an 'accident' and then they'd (for whatever reason, I don't know, just go along with it) look up and see that the lights were never turned on. Then they'd take this minuscule but yet all so relevant piece of evidence and merge it with the fact that I was an early bird. Their conclusion would be something along the lines of this:

"It started off like any other Monday morning. This woman was going to the bathroom, perhaps to take a shower, when she slipped and fell, hitting her head off the marble floor which hence caused the fatal concussion on her head. Upon futher investigation we learned that the bathroom lights had, in fact, never been turned on so her vision was not prompted and this was the main factor in this death."

"Upon intensive investigative work, ( 'intensive investigative work' my hole, you were only here five minutes and you now think you're Sherlock ****** Holmes) we have concluded that this woman's death was nothing more than an accident of human error and that she was, in fact, a *****."

Imagine having that written in the paper about you? My mother would be so proud.

Anyway, just to clarify, I did turn on the bathroom lights, I'd be a bit upset if the story ended here, wouldn't you? You'd close the book, throw it on something around you within a relatively close proximity (at least that's what I'd hope) and let out an angry sigh along with the words, "well, what a waist of five minutes that was."

After the feeling of acid being slowly dripped into my eyes faded, I was able to see. The white marble floor stared back at me, I wonder if this is what it feels like to stare are a dead person, you know? With a white face staring at you and everything. Anyway, I remeber getting this marble put down and how much I hated it even before I bought it. You see, it wasn't my idea, it's was someone else's flirtation of an idea that soon turned into someone else's definitive decision and here we are today.

I can't say I hate it now, I mean having to see something every day for more than one occassion somewhat forces you to get used to something.

Shame is that the same thing can't be said for some of the people in my life.

I took of the clothes I wore to bed, which was nothing more than a old red shirt with an aging beer logo on it and my underwear.
When I come home I'm usually physically, emotionally and spiritually drained, clothing means little to nothing to me.

Finding the will to drag each limb into the shower took some effort, but I got there eventually. The rush of water from my head all the way to my toes feels heavnily, absolutely brilliant. This, this is probably one the best moments of my mornings when I'm alone. It's more than just a place to clean, shave and get out, oh no, it's much more than that for me. It's the cylindrical scope at which I conjugate my best plans and ideas, where fantasize about the idea of being famous and also where I think I can reach the same vocal cords as Christina Aguilera and still sound good, unfortunately, that last part is really all in my head.

I sing some song I've had stuck in my head for the past four days that I heard while I was at a bar with friends and reach for the shampoo. Only problem is, I can't find it. Well, that's not all true, I know its there, but I just don't know where the geographical location of 'there' is. There's bottles of everything under the sun on this shower rack alongside soaps, a lilac luffa glove and a blue hairbrush that isn't even mine. See, these are the trials you face when you share a living space with someone. Nothing belongs to you anymore, absolutely nothing.

I finally find the right shampoo and conditioner, clean myself with a bodywash that smells like vanilla and leave the shower. Wrapping a towel around myself I go to the sink to brush my teath, there's no point in putting my hair up in a towel, it's to short for that.
Once all the obstacles in the bathroom have been defeated it's time to get dressed.

Standing, and looking aimlessly into my closet for my underwear, I decide what todays attire is going to consist of. I flick back and forth through the rack like a woman in a store thats actually got time to spend looking through the same item of clothing just in fourty different shades of the same colour. I have to admit, my closet doesn't differ all that drastically, it's all just black, white, navy and the occasional pop of burgundy. I don't do colour, it's just not my thing.

Oh, by the way , I'm Prideux.

Je suis très heureux de faire votre connaissance.

(If there's spelling mistakes I'm sorry , I don't read over things )

Its 8:00 pm. The streets are speckled with cars and airport buses bringing people to and frow, but whether that be to the airport or a nearby hotel is beyond my knowledge, only a flirtation of an idea that's briefly allowed to waltz around my head.

There's only a handful of people on this bus, most people usually drive cars around here. Or is it perhaps a bus doesn't come at a convenient time for them? Or is it that they live in a remote part of the city where buses simply don't venture? Or can it be that theses people are perhaps not old enough to drive and those that are seemingly can't, or wont.  

The bright lights in the bus sting your eyes in comparison to the dark December night, days get shorter and nights so much longer, and colder. Surely the eyes of the drivers passing by must sting from the lights of the bus? Almost like you check your phone in the middle of the night and remember that you never turned the brightness settings down and as a result when you go to check your phone it feels like someones dowsed your delicate eyes with acid and you put your hand over your eyed and reenact a scene from an old 'Dracula' movie as you cry, "The light! It burns!" Ah, I'm morbid.

I remember getting onto the bus. The greeting wasn't something I'd choose to remember. I was met by a round, middle aged man in his fourtys accompanied by a face that could only be described like he was constantly ******* on a lemon. He was bald and had deep, sunken in eyes that were turning a beetroot shade around the bottom. Alcohol? maybe. The own self knowledge that this day would never end ? possible.  The knowledge that this job was, sooner or later, going go lead him to a deep state of depression and eventually he'll get fired for telling an elderly lady in not-so-nice terms to get off "his bus"? Could happen.  The addition of all of the above? Most likely, no offence to any other of you bus drivers.

Oh, his fake gold company name tag told me that 'Gerald' had been the name his parents had written on his birth certificate all those year ago.
The noise of persistent and agonising coughing bleeds through the sound of my headphones and I look up to see the cause of my disruption. The sound seems go be coming from an elderly woman sitting across row from me. At first, as the natural thing for you to presume would be that she has a cold, or perhaps a dry throat, to which you'd be the good citizen and ask if she was alright and offer her your water, but upon further inspection of the situation, I've come to the wrong conclusion.

Her skins crying out for the oxygen its been deprived of for years. All thats left of it now is not something left to be envied, I've seem white towels with brown tea stains on it with less discolouration on that of the skin hang upon her old face.  

The burgundy lipstick she decided to support today was no use in trying to conceal the lines that had taken shape on her  lips, sadly.
Behind those lips I can only imagine what horrific delights might rear their ugly head. I imagine a once pearly, perfect set of teeth now nothing but yellowed decay married with the horrible mix of sugar free gum to try and remove the smell. I wouldn't say it works very well either.

Lastly, her eyes. Something we all have a dreamy tendency to stare at. Hers were grey, almost like that of an artist's 2H pencil. Around her eyes, yellow rimmed the grey scene. The contrast of this and the streak of a one shade purple colour on her eyelids was all to much to bear and I broke my gaze from hers. She was beautiful once.

Beside me was a young mother of 9 and 20 years holding her child. Perhaps he found the rhythmic journey of the bus's adventure soothing and for that I was grateful. Its late and irritated children are the last thing anyone needs on their Tuesday night. She looks tired, but that's to be expected. Whoever said raising children was easy and involved sleep? But what would I know, I don't have children of my own. She didn't wear a wedding ring. Perhaps its of more convenience for her not to wear it. Or maybe she isn't  married. Or maybe she isn't romantically involved with someone. Was she once?

The bus stops outside a middle class looking estate and an impatient looking business man with a a bag carrying his laptop and a very expensive pair of shoes walks out and just before he steps off the bus he turns to the driver and thanks him for his service.
He didn't mean it.

All is quiet and I start to feel tired. My head bounces off the pole standing costumers use when the buses are packed and it doesn't appear that seats even exist. My headphones are in and I look out the window to see the sea, peaceful and graceful on this cold December night, greeting me, almost with open arms.

The lights of the cars rush by like multicoloured fireworks, so close you could almost hold one in the palm of your hand.

And as the night gets longer and the journey seems that ever bit more endlessly scenic I find myself questioning.

Questioning what I'd just been witness to.
Questioning this December.
Questioning this bus.
Questioning this night.

Then the main question swam afloat.

In years to come, when I might once step onto this very same bus again, who will I be?

And then it was my turn to depart.

The building's exterior colour reflecting my mood - dreary. A silly brown, dishwater dreary.

I've been here since 11 o'clock this morning, and the time passes at the same speed as the clouds, so slow it would be better of me to name it nonexistent. I hate heights, so just my luck that I should be on the highest floor possible. So high I'm able to look down on the roof of the prison. So close that I'm a stone's throw away from it.

I can see the other exterior parts of this hospital. It's funny how, on the inside, I can recognise it so much it's like my second home. The nurses and doctors know me by name as I know them by theirs. I know that if I need the bathroom. I have to turn right before I get to reception. I know that if I want food I have to go down the long corridor beside the cardiac ward and make the second left. The outside can only be described as foreign. A big metal box shaped generator stands on the top on the roof of another ward in the hospital. Attached to it are tubes and pipes of which their use to me is still uncertain. A long, metal stairs snakes it's way up the wall of the building, a door halfway up it, probably an escape door. Or easy access for the repair men if the generator gives in.

Toshiba fans, three, sit on top of  the building. They spin at the speed of a hamster in it's wheel and then slowly plummet back down to a mediocre tumble. This much describes how I feel, the excitement of when a doctor comes in with a file (is it finally me?) and my despair when he finally calls out a name (spoiler: it's not mine).

They have the news on, one one of those tiny TVs suspended high on the wall. There's a woman on, a politician. I suppose I should know her name, but I don't. I won't give her the satisfaction of recognition. She's talking about money (what is any country talking about nowadays, really?). I don't listen but I hear her say "Upon mature reflection..." Ha, if only she could her me. I'd tell her to shove it up backside sideways, upon mature reflection.

New parents with their young children, not knowing how they should tell their children to shut up, unfortunately children of that age don't quite understand that term. I'd have said it 20 times by know if I'd think they'd have understood.

I look back over to the prison. I suppose I can't complain about my position, given theirs. And then my mind starts to wonder about the people in there.
Are they innocent ?
Are they guilty?
Does "innocent till proven guilty really apply anymore ?
And if so, what did they do?
******?
Theft ?
The options are endless. Much like the people waiting here alongside me.

My thoughts don't pass the time much. Nothing does.

And then I see birds. Dozens of birds landing on the chimney of the prison. I can't tell what kind, my eyesight isn't that good, all I can make out is that they are white and grey. And then I think about how high up the prison chimney is and how much I hate heights. And then I realise that the prison is a long.. way.. down.

How do I unlove you? How do I unlove my sweetest downfall? How do I unlove the first person who taught me how to love? These questions kept me wondering.How? Can I? Will I?
I always wanted to know,how will I unlove you? I know that you don’t love me but that didn’t stop me from loving you. I don’t even think that any dense reason could stop me from doing so. Yet,I came to this realization, that no matter how much I love you, you could never reciprocate the feeling that I have for you.
I even came to this point where I asked myself,until when? Until when will I love you? Until when will I endure this pain? Until when will I drown myself in the sea of tears that I created just because of the agony that you put me into? That’s when I realized that I was holding onto something that didn’t exist anymore. At that moment, all I wanted to do was to cease my love for you.
But I don’t think I could do that. Well I can,but I won’t. Maybe some can,but if you love someone, that love you have for them just won’t go away. Yeah,you may meet someone better,but once you let someone into your heart,there will always be a piece of them in there. Every person that we love leaves a mark in our hearts. And you left a big mark in my heart. Scratch that. You left a massive scar in my life.

I think the best way to learn something is to put yourself in a situation where you can't escape until you learn it. Learning things out of fear, I find, is the best way to learn things.

Now don't get me wrong. It's different. You don't tell a 3 year old that they have to know the multiples of 2 in an hour or you're putting them up for adoption, that's just cruel.

I mean you have to put yourself in that situation. And I know a lot of you are going to think 'why is she telling us that in order to learn something you have to bput yourself in a situation where you're gonna be scared, how much narcotics is she on?". My answer to that ? None. I'm telling you this out of first hand experience.

I learnt all the languages I know today from only bringing myself and a change of clothes to that country and I worked there for however long was needed until I learnt that language. I had no form of communication, no Internet, no phone, no friends or family with me. Just me and a small suitcase and determination.

I think this is also the same for things you're scared of. Now this won't apply to everyone cause I know a friend of mine refuses to get in a car after something that happened to him when he was younger, I can completely respect that and I know how that feels so I'm not going to tell him to get in a car as he would never tell me that. Some things that you're scared of just never to away.

But my fear of spiders is probably something I could deal with and fix. I mean a spider never did anything to me, I honestly have no reason to be scared of them , but I am for some reason. I think if you have no reason to be scared of something then it can easily be fixed. Like the spider , I could probably pick it up and let it crawl on my hand and get used to it. I mean of course that is easier said than done because obviously I'm going to be scared even looking at it, not to mention picking it up. But I think I'd gain some courage in the knowledge that I overcame something I've been afraid of for years.

And this just isn't physically either, it can be emotionally, morally, and spiritually. I learnt that if you want something you have to be willing to fight for it and be prepared for some heartbreak along the way. How? Some people know of this, and when I tell people about it some people think that what my nan did was the wrong thing to do and others think it was the right thing to do. I've really only told 2 people what happened, and if you'd like to know then feel free to inbox me, I have no problem telling you, I would say it here but I think this post is long enough as it is,

~ Stay Beautiful ~