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....thingy....
Written from the perspective of a guy. A guy with dark hair. Beyond that, I don't know. It doesn't matter. This story is best read while listening to 'My December' by Linkin Park, since that's what I was listening to while writing it.
Christmas usually makes me nostalgic. Pensive. Not necessarily depressed, because not all of my memories are bad. Usually, though, when I think about the past, I remember pain more vividly than I can smiles. Pain is more real, I think.
No matter where you look, you can see a couple. Especially at Christmas. Holding hands, shopping for presents, eating, anything. I want that.
She left me, not so long ago. "I have to leave. I have to go find out who I am. I can't stay here any longer, I can't stand it." I can't stand living. I can't stand waking up in the morning and knowing I won't see you. I won't hear your voice. I won't hold you in my arms. I won't kiss you.
The snow's falling now. Swirling and stinging me on the face. It's so pure, so perfect. Nobody else notices. They're mindless beings, simply walking, with no regard of whomever may be next to them. Gripping tight to their shopping bags. Wearing mittens and gloves, scarves, anything to protect them from coldness and pain, not that they'd feel it anyway. If you were to start talking to one of them, they would probably sneer, recoil, walk away. They don't care. They don't understand.
My life has no meaning now. It never did, but it's only now that I realize it. I'm a robot. I work, I eat, I sleep, I'm considerate to people, a "fine, upstanding young gentleman". But what does that mean? We're born, we do things that are expected of us, and we die. I used to think the things I did were so important, so vital....but they're not. If I wasn't here, my friends would move on. The company would hire someone else and keep on being successful. I have no importance.
I button my coat and bury my bare hands in my coat pockets. Enough of this. On the ground, the snow melts on impact. But here and there, there are small mounds of it - packs of them who decided to get together and not melt. Not fade into the background like everyone else, but be like they are, or at least as much as they can be. Stay white, stay pure, stay you.
I realize this is exactly what you were doing. Leaving the man who was fading fast. You didn't want to be sucked in, stripped of your self. You didn't want to lose yourself or become one of these random people walking the streets, not caring, but wondering anyway. But you're already gone.
It's all clear now. It's all pure now. I understand now. And I don't need you either.
Christmas usually makes me nostalgic. Pensive. Not necessarily depressed, because not all of my memories are bad. Usually, though, when I think about the past, I remember pain more vividly than I can smiles. Pain is more real, I think.
No matter where you look, you can see a couple. Especially at Christmas. Holding hands, shopping for presents, eating, anything. I want that.
She left me, not so long ago. "I have to leave. I have to go find out who I am. I can't stay here any longer, I can't stand it." I can't stand living. I can't stand waking up in the morning and knowing I won't see you. I won't hear your voice. I won't hold you in my arms. I won't kiss you.
The snow's falling now. Swirling and stinging me on the face. It's so pure, so perfect. Nobody else notices. They're mindless beings, simply walking, with no regard of whomever may be next to them. Gripping tight to their shopping bags. Wearing mittens and gloves, scarves, anything to protect them from coldness and pain, not that they'd feel it anyway. If you were to start talking to one of them, they would probably sneer, recoil, walk away. They don't care. They don't understand.
My life has no meaning now. It never did, but it's only now that I realize it. I'm a robot. I work, I eat, I sleep, I'm considerate to people, a "fine, upstanding young gentleman". But what does that mean? We're born, we do things that are expected of us, and we die. I used to think the things I did were so important, so vital....but they're not. If I wasn't here, my friends would move on. The company would hire someone else and keep on being successful. I have no importance.
I button my coat and bury my bare hands in my coat pockets. Enough of this. On the ground, the snow melts on impact. But here and there, there are small mounds of it - packs of them who decided to get together and not melt. Not fade into the background like everyone else, but be like they are, or at least as much as they can be. Stay white, stay pure, stay you.
I realize this is exactly what you were doing. Leaving the man who was fading fast. You didn't want to be sucked in, stripped of your self. You didn't want to lose yourself or become one of these random people walking the streets, not caring, but wondering anyway. But you're already gone.
It's all clear now. It's all pure now. I understand now. And I don't need you either.
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