You walked in through the door, your left leg stepping first over the dusty, wooden door frame. You smiled, almost nervously, but it was intriguing the way you dealt with this seemingly awkward situation. You peered down at your worn out, deep blue jeans, torn at the knees, slipping your hands into your pockets peering up at me.

There I was, practically a piece of furniture in the living room of your mind. I felt I'd been there so long that I knew everything there was to know, every painting hung, every window and their matching curtains, the faded light green rug placed on the squeaky floor boards, every cob web and every occasional butterfly that fluttered in and out. It was strange, knowing so much about you both repelled me and attracted me to you, in a way unexplainable. There had to be more to you. There had to be a reason you loved to watch the news over and over again, and a reason you didn't like sugar in your coffee and a reason you turned up at my door that summer afternoon. A reason for my outrageous feelings. I remember how the warm air played with the stray bits of your light brown hair and how your eyebrows raised as you smiled, resembling the way shoulders shrug. They say that sometimes you can actually feel your heart breaking. Well, when our eyes met, mine seemed to break in half and fix itself perfectly, simultaneously. Emotions in slow motion, yet still all to fast to understand.  I had to keep it together as it fell apart. I had to forgive myself for letting myself love you, whatever 'love' was.  

I wondered, earlier that morning, when I walked past the nearby florist store, what life and death was. What the terms 'life' and 'death' actually meant. How all those beautiful flowers were cut just as they were at their bloom; killed when they were most beautiful. I thought perhaps this might be the same for humans, but then shoved the thought of such demanding topics into a little steel chest in the back of my brain, conveniently placed deep under the part where all the happy thoughts are filed in neat metal cabinets. I felt as though I was drowning in hopelessness, as though I was enclosed in some sort of night club, surrounded with smiling faces and drunken comments and 'woooo's and lofty eyes, as though the frivolous party atmosphere was consuming every inch of my sanity. I wished so bad I could be as absent minded as them. I wished I didn't have the overwhelming need to find more. There had to be more. More than alcohol, and straightened hair, and *** and money, more than education and marriage, more than tanned skin, more than music, more than fake 'hello's and the meaningless exchange of numbers between two strangers. One thing, though, that I would often consider was how strangers were the most beautiful of things. They are like little mysterious secrets. Strangers could be whatever you wanted them to be. One could fall in love with a stranger. The ideas and fantasies are so dreadfully captivating, that one can get so easily attached. Attached to something, someone, who doesn't actually exist. These bedazzled ideas that one constructs, designs and creates around these unknown people is so quickly broken as one gets to know them. I never wanted to get to know anyone after getting to know you. I decided that afternoon that I'd rather love strangers, I'd rather invest myself in silly, pretentious ideas of people, than loving actual, real people. Getting to know someone is just as much exciting as it is suspenseful and disappointing, it's awful because the more you know; the less there is to know, and you keep learning and learning until one day, simply, there seems nothing left to learn. You come to a solid wall when you were expecting a big bright door.