Train Station Stories

There she is.
Again.
Standing alone at a train station.
Again. Just like she always is.
Suppose she's ocd? Maybe she just has to keep a certain schedule.
I mean, even her clothes are generally the same. A dark jacket that goes to her knee, boots, and a patterned skirt that pokes out just underneath.
Actually, I quite like the skirt. It's contrast. Her dark hair, dark jacket, dark boots, dark tights, and then a light skirt. It's barely visible, but at the same time, it's impossible not to notice. Usually it's floral, but sometimes plaid, sometimes checkered.
If it was possibly to accurately judge what a person is like from a person's clothing, I'd have an idea about her. I bet she'd be quiet, and daydreams a lot. Of course, I know she daydreams a lot, because I can see her at the station doing just that. Her eyes are focused on something, but they aren't. She's looking at something, but it's more as if she's looking through it.
I bet she lives in a small apartment. She has just enough money to pay the rent on time, but not enough to live 'comfortably.'
She works at a grocery store, or a coffee shop, or maybe even a little cafeteria at some more important company.
She's not married. Nor in a relationship. Nor looking for one.
Maybe if she found someone who felt the same way she did, she would be interested in a relationship. Someone who, more or less, floats through life.
Everyday, she gets up, not dreading the day, but not looking forward to it. It just is. She just 'is'. She is not unhappy, but she is not happy. She supposes she could be happy somewhere else, but every time she moves, it's the same.
Of course, this is just the story that plays through my head.
For all I know, she moved around a lot as a kid, and had a chaotic childhood. This makes her need to have a schedule, a set schedule. Maybe she moved here and hasn't moved since.
No, I'm certain she couldn't have lived her long. The people here seem to have the same...tone, after living here for a while. When people first come here they stick out. But after living her awhile, they blend in. They become the city, so to say.
Back to my theories.
Yes, I believe she hasn't lived here very long.
She was in a relationship, with British fellow, before she came here. He didn't have a beard, but was never cleanly shaven. She met him at a train station. She was returning from her sisters house in the suburbs, he was returning on the same train after a job interview.
British accents are dangerous. She fell for him, and he fell for her. He was different like her. He floated through life. He loved music, and always spoke of playing the guitar. But he never learned to play the guitar. He never learned to sing.
He makes hats.
He made hats for her sometimes, and she loved them. She used to wear them all the time.
Eventually, they moved in together. Both had enough money to be comfortable. It seemed nice.
They didn't have the passionate love everyone spoke of. Both of them knew it, but neither cared. When they were together, it didn't matter what they were doing, they were content.
And they didn't fight. They were both quiet people. But they did talk of course. Of life, flowers, paper, different places around the world.
After living together around a year, she found out she was pregnant. When she told her love, a smile stretched across his face, giving him wrinkles around his eyes. He was overjoyed. He spoke of traveling, and what instruments he would teach the child to play.
But then she had a miscarriage.
At first, he said it was alright. He said he was fine. She said the same thing. They tried to forget.
Neither of them really could. And they found themselves speaking to each other less and less. He came home less, giving excuses about how his boss wanted him to stay late, or he had to pick up some milk. Although she knew it wasn't the truth, she never called him out on it.
She didn't call him out on anything, for they never spoke at all, even dinners were silent. He started falling asleep on the couch with his laptop more and more.
Eventually, they separated. He thought it was a mutual agreement. She let him believe that, even though it was far from the truth. But she knows a bad breakup is just worse all around. And since a bad breakup won't change the fact that he's not in love with her, she let it happen in peace.
After that, she couldn't stay in town. She packed all her things only 3 nights after she left his apartment. Then she bought a ticket and came to my city. She waits at the train station, in nearly the same outfit,  because it's what she has left to hold onto.
That's probably completely inaccurate, though. I bet non of the happened to her.
Hell, maybe she's thinking the same thing about me. I don't know anything.
Oh, look, there's my train.

Radiance

Sometimes in her sleep she smiles. Is she dreaming? Is she far away?
Sometimes in her sleep she laughs. Is she happy? Does she wish she could stay?
Sometimes in her sleep she cries, and you hold her and pray.

Morning comes, and she'll forget.
Things we dream about never make much sense.
Then the sun shines in so bright.
Just like her radiance.

All these moments fly by so quickly.
But she never seems to mind, as long as you're by her side.

Sometimes in her sleep, she awakens to find you were there all the while.
With a smile, she returns to her dreams.

Thinking Outside the Box

Is there anyone I can tell my thoughts, my views, and my opinions on life without being told 'I'm viewing the glass half empty'.
I want someone who will listen to me, and not tell me my ideas are a load of BS. I don't care if they agree with me or not, but I don't want them telling me that.
I'm having a very bad day. And I just needed someone to spill my thoughts too.To have a real conversation with. I don't think my thoughts are depressing, it's just how I view things. So I tried to talk to my best friend. I just needed someone to listen to me for once.
She replied 'ugh whatever'.
I felt like crying. Just these thoughts that nothing I do is correct or good enough came back. And her reaction reminded me that I really am different. Apparently I'm just a mess up. My thoughts aren't worth listening to, cause they're not like everyone else. I'm not worth listening to.
I love other people's thoughts. They're are so interesting. I can listen to my friend tell me what she thinks about the school system or politics or anything for so long. It fascinates me. My friends, people at school, the people who work at Super Cuts, all their thoughts tend be unique, I love it. But why are my ideas so wrong? Why can't I just speak my mind? But no one is reading this. And I know it. No one listens to me in the real world, and no one listens to me here. So why am I writing this? Because I need to.
I need to be heard. Even if I never will be.

22 Hours

Today I shall spend around 22 hours on a bus. Well, technically today and tomorrow. This means I will be spending a lot of time with no computer, and no internet in general. I will most likely listen to music and write. Maybe play a few games on my iPod?
It's funny to think that at one point iPod didn't exist. I don't like how everyone seems to rely on electronics, but I can't lie, I don't know what I'd do if I didn't have my iPod. It's like a really good friend too me, no matter how pathetic that sounds...

There's something that I've always had trouble with. I've always had trouble with grasping the fact that my life is most likely going to be boring and average. I just keep hoping that something interesting will happen, some intricate plot. But I know that I'm just going to get a job, get a place to stay, and live life like every other person. How boring. It's because I watch too many movies and read too many books. Sometimes I'll close my eyes and imagine all these perfect little scenes in my head. Maybe that's why I write, to get all my thoughts and wishes out on to paper. To escape. Anything can happen in a story. You can meet anyone you want, go anywhere you want, do anything you want. Sadly, you and I both know that real life doesn't work this way. I mean, if it did, I'd feel really sorry for Johnny Depp and Julia Roberts and people like that, they'd have thousands of people showing up to meet them non stop. They're already swarmed with fans of course, but now the fans could meet anyone they want whenever they want! What a nightmare!
Half of my stories I don't let anyone see. Frankly, it's really bad writing. The characters can be to perfect, there are plot holes, stuff that could never happen. It's not that I can't write well, because I can. If I spend time to put together a good story, I don't care if people read it. I write a lot of stories for myself though, so I don't care how unrealistic they are. Once I read a story I wrote a long time ago, and it made me laugh how bad it was! It was like something you'd find on Fanfiction.net written by a teenage girl. That's why I never read one of my personal stories more than once.
Today I think I shall spend time on a good story. One that I could show to somebody if I really wanted to. Though of course, I won't. At least not while I'm in the room. That is just weird. Have you ever had someone read something you wrote, like a letter or something, while you were in the room? It's weird!

Well, it's decided. I shall work on a good story today. I haven't got anything better to do for 22 hours... 

Starting a Blog

Hello...blog. This is going to be fun, I just know it.
It's odd really, I love to write so much, yet I've never had a blog till now. Maybe it's because I was too lazy to get around to making one. Of course, a blog will never compare to writing in a leather bound book. Very few things feel better than picking up a leather bound book, placing it in your lap, thumbing through the pages to where you were last at, and finally starting to write. Especially if they're closed with a little tied string. I have a leather bound book, but it doesn't have the string. I came very close to buying one in a coffee shop once. It was so nice. But, alas, it was too expensive for my falling apart wallet, which is filled with dust and expired coupons. Anyways, if you have never written in a book as such described, I suggest you put that on your 'to do list'.
      Now wouldn't that be a laugh. "Things to do today: Pick up the kids from school, meet Jessie for coffee, do the dishes, feel the sensations of a leather bound book." Personally, I would love to see that list hanging on someone's refrigerator.
     If I were to write down every though I had, (which I won't do, I promise) my story would never end. It would just be a continuous flow of words. Until I die of course, or get lobotomized like poor Mr. Murphy, but they don't practice that anymore. At least not where I'm from...
   This post has no purpose, does it? I mean, I'm not even stating anything particularly interesting or useful. I suppose if something interesting happens, I shall come here to write it down. I would much rather do that then rant about it to some poor friend of mine.
That's the end of my pointless post I suppose. I shall write more later.