It’s a cold, dry winter morning

just a little past two o’clock...

I’m sitting here on the cold metal bench

in an empty street

the icy breeze sweeping past..

taking with it crumpled,

dead dark red autumn leaves.

It’s empty here

It’s eerie here

there’s not a soul in sight.

The trees are dead and decaying,

the branches are heavy with dejected ice...

ready to be done with this heavy night.

It’s cold and lonely

but it feels like home

for this is all I’ve ever known.

There’s a single street lamp in the distance

it’s near enough to admire

and yet far enough that I cannot ever reach it..

It emits a beautiful soft yellow light...

I watch, and see a thin curtain

of pastel fog form

illuminated by the lamp’s glow...

I watch, and it fades away into vapor

leaving little beads of condensation

dripping down the glass

that then harden, forming miniature icicles,

frozen in time, a reminder of what was.

I’m still sitting here on the cold metal bench

freezing, anhedonic, melancholic.

I watch the street lamp slowly burn out

and I watch my world darken

and dissolve into blackness.

-You’re my streetlamp.

(I’m not talking about the winter weather here)

-Love.

Reading this prompt, I felt an overwhelming sense to cry. From toddler to young adult, thousands of pages are filled with my written words. All the emotions of a young girl who has suckled off the world of drugs, has lost her other half, and was abandoned not by chance but by necessity backs these words. As grave and bold as it is to say, I would not be alive without writing. So I will always write, even if the world stopped writing.

Writing is to tell a story, to have expression. A human without expression is inhuman.

I think in our current reality, we must discontinue our desperate attempt at pursuing a life which leads to a special existence we all secretly desire. It is in this quest of a deceptive end of expected euphoria, we essentially discover we have already worn a path not worth treading. As we continue to perpetually struggle to reach our extraneous goals, we come to understand our striving may have been in vain, as we eventually find ourselves exactly where we came from. Maybe we should all step back, and stop trying to formulate something that has already been invented by untarnished hands.

“It’s always the quiet ones,” says the coroner shaking his head as he stares down at the mess on the floor. Blood pools around the head of a man lying at an awkward angle.

An officer whistles low. “Check out the scars on him,” he says.

“Yeah. These suicides have lots,” the coroner replies.

They can hear a woman in the hall, sobbing loudly, “I talked to him this morning. He said he was fine.”

I read the last words of the message

"I'm sorry, Henry"

I waited awhile for the response. It definitely wasn't what I was expecting. It wasn't the first time I'd told her how I felt, it was the third time in a year since I met her. The first time was right after we went seperate ways. We were travelling in a far away place. It was more like a summer love story. But it was nice, we were happy.

We met at a bar and she was lovely in her black dress. She was dancing and caught my eye. You see, there's two types of people dancing at a bar: there are those who dance comfortably to fit in and there are those who fucking dance blissfully and close their eyes and let their body go with an energy that says, "fuck you I'll dance how I want". She was the latter, and I loved it. Everytime I looked over she smiled at me but she was with someone else so I left it alone but I noticed whenever he came up to her, she would just brush him away or dance with him in a friendly way. And still every so often I'd glance over and she'd glance right back and give me that mischevious smile.

I went outside for a cigarette and to get some fresh air. I stood by the entrance of the bar, next to some chairs with tables and ashtrays. I'm not gonna lie I was pretty drunk and ready to go home but she came outside a few minutes later and sat in the chair beside me.

"How come you didn't talk to me", she said

"Well.. you were with that guy. I didn't want to get inbetween you two"

She stood up and put her hand out signaling for the cigarette. I handed it to her and she took a long drag.

"Come on", she said and grabbed my hand and pulled me to the bar.

"Two tequilas"

And so we drank.

And drank.

And drank some more.

Next thing I know I'm on the dance floor with her so close to me. You were running your hands through my chest and stomach, lifting it up just slightly, and swaying evenly with the music.

We went outside again and just as we started talking the other guy shows up madly drunk. He says he's lost and doesn't know how to get back home and she rolls her eyes and say that she has to take him home. I didn't really feel bad about her leaving. I actually admired the fact that she wanted to take care of someone else. She gave me her number, a kiss on the cheek, and she was off. That was the night we met.

A few days later we ran into each other again and it was really easy. We talked, and laughed, and loved. We spent three weeks with eachother, every day a new adventure. It was three wonderful weeks. Boarding flights flying in different directions, to different parts of the world, was not easy.

A few weeks later I messaged her. I think I missed her. I missed all of it. Being on the road, the thrill of the unknown, the adventure of the next moment. In a way she embodied all of that. I told her that she was one of the most outstanding people I'd ever met and I meant it. She said she wasn't good at these conversations and apologized and changed the subject. I can't say that I was devastated. This was a woman I only knew briefly but something inside me kept a flicker of hope but still let it go, almost.

Some months went by and girls came and went. But nothing came close to the way I felt before. It was hard meeting someone like her, someone so alive and beaming.

I got outrageously drunk one night and thought it'd be a good idea to message her and I did. Once again I said that I missed her and I got the same response. So I accepted and wished her the best, told her if she ever needed anything I was here for her, and I let it go, almost.

A year went by and sometimes you'd write and sometimes I'd write about nothing big but still in a small place in my mind I always went back to her and I never knew why. I still don't.

Last night I got absolutely outrageously drunk and I did it one last time.

" You know, sometimes I kind of miss you" I wrote

Nothing. A few minutes go by. Still nothing. I go outside for a cigarette to get my mind off it and when I come back I see my phone flashing. It was a notification from you. I opened it slowly.

"I'm sorry, Henry"

This time I actually laughed. I didn't feel sad. I felt almost relieved. This whole time, despite the rejection I always kept a tiny sliver of hope but this time it was almost like the punchline to a long and cruel joke. But I still laughed. I thought, "why the hell do I still like this girl?" She was always kind, and made time for me when I did write but that was it. It really made me think about how love works and how its so awfully cruel. You can love someone and keep them in your thoughts but the truth is that it's not enough for someone else to feel the same. You can care about someone and wish them all the good in the world but still they might not spare a thought back for you. That was a hard realization, but a good one. Now I can put effort into people that are willing to give back what you give.

"There's nothing to apologize for. Take care of yourself" and that was that. It was a good goodbye.

You’d think I care. Maybe I do. Perhaps I don’t.

You’d think my writing reflects my cheerful demeanor--I’d think that, too. But hey, I guess we all have our secrets, our dark corners. We all worry and fret--is it narcisstic to think I do it more than other people? Yes? Okay. I shall purge the thought from my head.

You know those annoying girls who can get obnoxious when they want attention?

Yeah, I’m one of them. I wish I wasn’t, and I’m trying to get better, but the swing into loud and annoying is difficult to resist.

People say I’m a nice person. Which, I guess, is nice. But it’s a bland, isn’t it? I try to overcome the bland part of “nice” by unleashing my dorky self.

After all, it’s pretty easy to become less bland if you act as if you’re wearing polka-dots and stripes.

I don’t wear polka-dots or stripes. Usually it’s jeans, jeans, jeans, and more jeans. I do wear shirts, too, but I doubt you’re interested in me describing my style. Tank tops? Yep. Tee shirts? Yep. Logos of fandoms? Occasionally.

I used to be a book-eater. Not a book worm, a book-eater (which, I suppose, is practically the same thing ...) I used to devour stories in days. I had a rule that I could only bring home 300+ page books because anything shorter I’d finish in a single day and I couldn’t bring that many books home from the library for a week. My arms were too small and the bag quickly became too heavy.

Nowadays, I find time only to study, chat online, and write. Right now, I’m taking precious studying time to write this because I’m a procrastinator who hates math and guess what I have to do? I could just do something else, but I’m a creature of schedules and if I can’t do it at its proper time then why bother doing it at all?

Of course, that’s the procrastinator speaking. Logically, if I want to improve my SAT scores, I’d study from dawn to dusk, but I can barely manage getting up at 8:00. Which is probably because I can barely manage getting to bed before 12:30 A.M. What can I say? I’m a nocturnal creature born in a diurnal body. The stars and moon have always been more fascinating than the sun.

I used to stay up until 3:00 in the morning to finish rereading Harry Potter. I wish I could do that, still. Reading was such a wonderful escape. Now, I’ve become picky. I can’t turn my writing brain off, which I guess is fine, but it means I enjoy reading less which means I’m not studying my own academic.

Academics. Shit.

I turned eighteen in July. Which, FYI, is mildly terrifying for multiple reasons. I’m beginning to pull it together. I have a game plan. Executing the plan is easier said than done, but it’s getting there.

College seems like such a strange, distant thing. I’ve never sat at a public school desk except for my first SAT. I’m homeschooled, always have been. I live out in the middle of freaking nowhere. I still don’t have my driving license and really only just started practicing driving. Because, where I live, there are just few enough people that the people who are here think they can drive crazy in places that would optimally be my driving practice areas. Except, you know, the crazy drivers are there.

Oh, I suppose you non-traditional schoolers (did you know, back in the day there were no public schools and parents actually had to do the work of being with their kid and teaching them?) you want to ask some pretty stupid questions.

What grade am I?

Do you like it?

Would you rather do public schooling?

And, the big question: how do you *[gasp]* socialize?

A warning: I’m in a pretty sour mood at the moment (writing about such serious topics and procrastinating does that to me--yes, I’m a masochist), so my insincere apologies if I insult you.

-Grades were created specifically for public school because they have big classes. They weren’t made for homeschooling and classes of (at most) three, so why would I use that system?

-Of course I like it, I’m not forced to spend time with idiots and hormone-fueled teenagers.

-If you’re asking this question, you seriously need to do some retrospection.

My apologies to the people who are reading this to see if I’m a good contestant; I started to ramble. My only defense is that the best way to know me is if I let you know some of the things that tick me off.

I should end with a conclusive note. A wise sentence to tie this all together. As a reader, I’d appreciate it. I mean, you’d think I care. Maybe I do.

But perhaps I don’t.

I like to wear sweat pants in autumn. A nice pair goes a long way, and the ones I wear always make me feel the best. Especially as I walk down the sidewalk in the nippy air, watching the vibrant hues of trees ready to shed their leaves. Some had already done so, and the leaves were swept into neat piles by the main road. Throughout the day, people would walk past them and disturb the immaculate pile that sat unnoticed beside them.

I enjoyed watching the people that walked by.

Thigh boots. Skinny jeans. Sweater vests. Knitted scarves. I like to see everyone in the ambers, the crimsons, the earthy browns--the cascading colors that carefully wrapped our naked, aging bodies. People watching, with the outfits and the colors, was a very entertaining past time for me. I like watching. But something told me I wasn't one to participate. And I never will have the chance to, anyways.

Unfortunately, I died a month ago. The sweats I still wore from that tragic day was the outfit I'd spend eternity in. I've accepted it, quite quickly actually. There's not a whole lot to consider when the option has already been taken out of your hands. I appreciate that. Not having to spend too much time worrying about how you look, how you walk, how you talk. To some degree, I finally have relief.

However, moving on was an entirely different problem. I walked down the sidewalk, passing by the coffee shops. My nostrils filled with pumpkin spice. I missed that smell, the taste too. There are some disadvantages to being dead, especially in autumn. I sighed. I forgot what a pumpkin spice latte tasted like. That was more frustrating than I anticipated. But, among all the other frustrating things I have encountered, I liked how simple that felt.

My name? Forgot it. My parents? Don't know them. My past? Who knows. But the most exhausting thing plauging me constantly, to no avail, was how did I die?

Wandering, ironically enough, helps me find the memory I have lost. The pumpkin spice. The people dressed in shades of sunset. My reflection in the windows. I hoped that as the winds of chance pulled me and my aimless wandering continued maybe I could find out all the answers I craved.

But until then, I was content to settle for the people watching. By far the most enjoyable moments are when I see the shocked look of people that pass through me. Something told me they must have been cold. But that was mostly because nobody wore sweats. Sweats are so comfortable in autumn. They are my favorite thing to wear, even as I walk lonely in the bustling sidewalk.

Sometimes I doubted--was I really dead? Probably, I would always decide. I was unsure what this level of invisibility meant otherwise. I wasn't hungry. Wasn't thirsty. Didn't feel tired in the slightest. I just felt empty. And I missed what it meant to be a part of the lively people that walked briskly around me.

I was like the pile of leaves, sitting next to the road. Dead. Unnoticed. Empty. As I lay down next to them, I was surprised at my dismay when I wished I was wearing something more colorful than grey sweats.

I am a people pleaser

A drunk guy teaser

A hardworking,

Anything to avoid a conflict

Appeaser.

I am a little bit crazy

Saturday nights hazy

Sunday mornings lazy,

Hit the gym on the daily.

Sometimes I’m really sad

Sometimes I’m somewhat glad

But always, in demand.

Try to tame me – I’ll be damned.

I am a secret keeper

Adventure seeker

A vivid dreamer

Always tellin him to ‘go deeper’

Sometimes I’m a mess

Sometimes I’m careless

Reckless,

Rebellious,

Restless,

Jealous.

All these flaws and imperfections,

I am a work in progress, not perfection.