Saturday, March 1, 2014

Alternatives

Inside a crowded imagination, the possibilities were endless. Faces flashed and fanned out before me; people I'd met, or merely passed in the street, people I'd never talked to, and people I wish I had. Girls with coloured streaks in their hair, girls on skateboards on sidewalks. Girls in cafés, girls with books tucked under their arms. Girls blasting music into the atmosphere, points of vivid nose, and girls who barely say a word. Boys with neatly done up collars and suspenders over each shoulder. Boys with big glasses and curly hair and neatly trimmed beards. Boys with tattoos creeping over their skin. 

I thought on these, on the things I was drawn to in people, out of the infinite possibilities. And slowly, without realising I was developing it, I found that I had a type; and the realisation hit me without preemptive warning. A slap in the face, a punch in the gut, the hollow feeling of falling. Because time and time again, it turned out they were all reflections of you. Without knowing it, I was falling for the bits of you I recognised in other people. Two years and a hundred people, and the only person I can think about is you. Inside a crowded imagination, everyone else is just a figment.

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