Mr. Jones

This is how I know. It starts with nothing. Then the opening notes begin to breathe.

Exhaling into melodies and refrains. Back to when this was the only thing you listened to. The heater kept you're room a chilly warm and the low hum of it all underlay this song. Different people were who mattered, even though they have withered and fallen like the hunched over autumn leaves. That void in your soul is picked up and hugged in the soft sound of Ben folds puzzles. Who knows if one year ago you were happy in this chilly warm room and who knows if these words struck you like they do now. Who knows if you really cared for those people, and if that time was really actually important. Everybody knows it's always better the second time around. Wars don't seem so bloody, Nights don't seem so dark, and strangers don't seem so cold when all you have left is the fact that you can't go back.

This time around, it reminds me of something I expect to come. Which is always how I end up disappointed. And that is precisely why I think it's time I about admit it. My friends are nice. But they aren't for me. I am not happy with them. They don't leave me with that rush. They make me feel like shit most of the time. Why are they my friends then? I think I got on the wagon too quickly. I didn't have anyone else to go to. I still don't. I really am alone. Or maybe I am just scared to be alone. I don't want to be the freak at lunch who gets all the chairs around her stripped away, like the unlucky branch on the Christmas tree. I shouldn't feel paranoid. I shouldn't feel annoying. I shouldn't feel controlling and needy and miserable. And it isn't their fault. I just get like this when I am around them. We have almost nothing in common. I think that I am remembering now why I wanted to go to boarding school this year. that probably won't help either way. They get off someone else can get on. The tears inside of me are stuck. They have amassed to a great salt sea that turns and tosses in me and keeps me away with the changing tides of insanity. Answer me this.

What is there left to do?

And I'm sorry, Mr. Jones. It's time