Twenty-five letters

Eventually, you start to settle in, and you stop thinking too much about whether there was something wrong with you being yourself, something repulsive that made you pretty much a hate figure. You've made excuses for yourself, or maybe you prefer to call them justifications. You just push on as you hear the rest of the world make small talk, playing with promiscuous nurses or lost work, and maybe you'll hear the discussion shift towards you and everything that makes you undesirable. Or you're just thinking about it. You know preoccupation can only get you so far, and when all is finished, and everything else has been exhausted, you try to cover your ears by starting your own conversation, with someone, hopefully someone. But you have to be alone, or else you'll be the weakest person in the world, and that's the least of your intentions.

Or maybe it's just you who's so narrow-minded, thinking that the very people who hate you will be the ones who will carry you through. That's the product of a few months, and one shrouded in mystery at that. Nothing beats twenty years of just standing there and letting things be, not trying too hard and not slacking off, either. Right before you, a list of fifty people or so who might be willing to talk to you, and the time is just right, for everything's winding down and the rest are getting ready to head west. All of you are just the same, with basically the same problems and the same need for a companion, and yet they manage to say they don't need you, and you are left stranded. Or you're just thinking about it. But that's the case, surely, because at this stage, you're not supposed to hang on to others just to feel good. Start doing things for yourself. Be independent, please.

There are people who talk, and people who talk to you, and people who you have to talk to, and people who you enjoy being with, and people who are a combination of some, or all, of them, and it ends up being painful. There are things you can do, but there are more things you can't do. What you have is fragile. One wrong move and you break them. You're better off keeping all your crazy impulsive plans and, instead, be like everybody else. Respect circles. Stay away from them. You're too late. You've got nowhere else to go. It's raining, and you're falling in love, and you want a hug, and you feel a little colder as you walk your way back west, and you smell the smell of rain-drenched suits, and you feel uncomfortable, and you can't do anything about it.

You've kept yourself preoccupied again, but there's the irony. You ended up overthinking about everything. You haven't moved onward. You are still idle. You are still hearing things. Perhaps most importantly, you still want the last letter to fill your alphabet. Track one. Press repeat. Enjoy while you still can.

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