Like a Drifting Leaf

We all try to reach out in our, own little quiet ways. You, hold a note up to the wind in hopes the one you want to will read it. Some, strange thing, a fate we hope exists. So you, cut yourself you… let yourself be upset in the hopes that the right person will notice. It’s that one thing you’re striving for. Hope. You put yourself out there just a little… not enough to be disappointed when it doesn’t work.

But you are disappointed.

You write on a desk, think in your head, give a look and a smile to just hope. You know it’s futile but then again, you don’t know. If you knew it wouldn’t work you wouldn’t do it. Somewhere you believe, so somewhere you let yourself hope. You hold a paper to the wind and hope it reaches the window of the one you want to read it. You post in a blog, you hope they’ll find without you having to point it out.

I guess I figure it’ll be the same as everything else. Ignored. Makes sense. But simply saying the words, feeling the feeling means it was there. It exists. It will always exist, and is as important as anything else. Can it be true? It can, for you. Fantasy, hope. It can be real. It is real. It keeps us from getting fucked up since we are so… so fucked up. Seems redundant. Seems… useless. But doesn’t breathing seem a little useless? In only to breathe out again and again. It’ll end eventually anyway. Why bother? It gets hard for me sometimes, just to take that breath. Then my body like an obnoxious saint comes along to remind me I must do it, to remind me I don’t have a choice but to hope. Would death really be that bad?

You’re welcome to think I’m insane. In fact I encourage it.

So what is this? What is it… An outreach? Following in someone’s footsteps. Maybe it’s a quiet confession. Maybe it’s all those things I already said. Maybe it’s a discovery that I need to talk to something faceless. I need to talk to someone who isn’t paid to help me. I need to talk to a mirror. Something that will shove my words back at me to go over and over. What better then this? Of course it is a note to the wind. And you know who you are. Though I’m not so sure you’re waiting by the window. It will smack against the glass, remain for a painful moment while your back is turned before being torn away and landing in the street. People will trample it, pass it by but someday, perhaps someone will pick it up. Maybe they’ll read it, think that it was sad… and move on just like everyone else. But at least I did it didn’t I? Moments exist eternally, for consciousness is what makes reality and we are conscious only in one moment, making every moment last for all time.

So I guess, since it was said, it matters…