Reflector

It's been a couple of weeks and already I have noticed a difference in my mood and the general outlook on life. There is this numb nagging feeling in the corner of my mind that I have to be sad or worried about something. But in the present I really don't care. I just want to be.

Chris must have sensed my increased confidence and contentment. I think he did. He invited me over last week for some good old...well, intimacy. I'm not sure if it was awkward or not. I don't really care. It seemed like when we first started hanging out. I felt shy, I felt my cheeks betraying me. He said I looked good and he leaned over for a quick peck.

He doesn't love me, no. Likes me? Maybe. But I know what I feel. Yet again, I don't know anymore. I still can't see the lines of reality and unconciousness, that I know for sure. I'm still dreaming as I walk to therapy, as I serve the masses, as I wait for the bus, as I sit here and type and long for Chris. I still stand by my previous statement that he is indeed like the many lovers I have had, all rolled into one persona, one love, one light, the beacon in my so-called shiteous existance. Maybe that's a significant thing, maybe he represents the past and the need to move on with my life. Maybe he is the One. I don't know what this universe has planned for me.

And in the mess that was his bedroom there were pieces of looking glass woven into every object and every fibre therein. I could see his soul, his mind, his heart, him. A mystery. A wonderous mystery that will be forever unsolved, shelved in a dusty box in a dusty warehouse in the middle of nowhere. Frozen in time. Frozen in space.

I've been having fun with my talking shoe at work, although I think I'm starting to wear on my coworkers nerves.

I walked to therapy this afternoon reading a short science-fiction story, luckily not walking into any posts or cars but nearly knocked a lady over when I got to a gripping part. After therapy I walked down to the bus stop and attempted to finish the story but kept getting interrupted by the inane ghetto calls of 15 year old girls to passing cars. Unfortunately two of those girls and their male counterpart (clad in the most ridiculous golden metallic cap I have ever seen) caught the same bus as I. For the duration of the bus trip the other passengers and I had to endure the unpleasantries such as loud mouthing, crude language and their phone set up like a mini stereo and thumping out loudly obscene gangsta rap filled with such eloquent lyrics "Mother fucker beating on my nigger" etc. Oh never mind the feet on the seats and the disregard for the elderly passengers. And they didn't even get kicked off which really got to me.

My eyes flashed up every so often from the pages of my book to see one of the girls staring at me. She didn't say anything, which I had feared she would, I suppose my absolute disgust and possible higher intellect backed her off a bit. I was tempted to be a juvenile myself when I got off at my stop to stick my finger up at them. But I thought it was more appropriate to keep walking and know that my taxes are going to help them in rehab or help them in the form of Legal Aid.

Yay for the youth of today.