Saturday, March 1, 2014


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 caf├ęs, 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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