When I wear my favourite clothes I feel like I'm inside a force-field.

My goal is to try everything in the supermarket.

It is probably impossible for you to understand the things that I do and the words that I say, unless perchance you have spent countless days alone in your room reading through every book you could possibly find. Not to mention the music, TV, and movies which have seeped into my life. You'd have to spend all your time with them, constructing a world that exists only in your head and then living your life as if it were real. You still wouldn't understand me though, because you've never met my invisible friends, and I doubt you've caught all 150 pokemon.

I don't think run-on sentences should be grammatically incorrect, because my words are a window to my thoughts and sometimes my thoughts run-on.

My moods are always in extremes. They wash over me, crashing down storm-waves. They take over my body, maddening me, or enthusing me. Happiness is the strongest, highest, wave of all. With it comes to me a sense of total clarity. Everything is simplified. I can do anything right. It is at times immediately after this wave hits me that I feel an incredibly strong urge to burst out of my house and run barefooted on my lawn and spin and jump and dance and laugh and kiss and hug every tree and flower and cloud that I see and yell out at the top of my voice to tell the whole world that I love it and then start to run and run and run so far and so fast that soon my feet don't come back down to touch the ground and I'm flying away simply because this happiness has made me so light inside and I can fly away to a place of this endless happy-light-clear-love feeling.

But my feet always come back down.

Sometimes in the car, I open the window and close my eyes. I pretend the air rushing is me falling.

There is a girl that I see every day. I don't know her name. Indeed, I have never spoken to her, except for conversations played out in my head. She takes the same bus as me. She is beautiful. She has wavy auburn hair and blue eyes. China doll complexion. Tiny pink lips. About 5'4 maybe 115 pounds. She must ride the bus much further than me, for she is always on it already when I climb aboard, and she always stays on it after I leave.

Her eyes are electric. They see everything. I know this girl can do magic. I feel if she looked at me for very long, she could find out everything about me.

She is smart. She usually has heavy looking school books. Maybe she is a few years older than me? I don't know. I've watched her grow up. I started taking the bus to school in grade eight. I graduate this year. She was already on the bus when I got on it for the first time. She was sitting across from me, wearing a light pink dress with orange flowers. Her legs were folded down and I could see her knees. Her head was turned so she could see out the window. She looked to me like she was searching for something out the window of that bus. Like she was on a scavenger hunt, only the thing she was looking for was so important that she would die if she didn't find it. She still wears that dress sometimes.

I feel as if looking at her every day has allowed me to get to know her. I know it's ridiculous. But I feel as if I already know what it would be like to kiss her, what her breasts would feel like as she pressed her chest against me and squeezed the sides of my head with her hands.

Maybe if I stare at her long enough she will jump up and kiss me right there on the bus, in front of everyone.

She is the one reliable person in my life. No matter what, every day I'm on the bus she is there too. I wonder if she noticed this also. But she hardly ever looks at me, and when she does it's only for a breif second. She looks out the window so very much.

I wonder what she would say if I told her I love her.

If I find you boring, it's not your fault. You are not a boring person, I am a restless person.

An old shoe is like an old friend. Look at a shoe you have had for a long time, maybe a year or two, but more is best. How many memories do you have of wearing it? How much of your life have you shared with it, and how much of its life has it shared with you? Remember all the compliments you received on it when it was brand shiny new and still had that not-yet-worn smell? How proud you were! Why yes, these are new shoes, how kind of you to notice. And now it's scuffed and broken. It's not the shoe's fault, nor is it yours. This has happened simply because the shoe has worked so hard for you, and is becoming tired in its old age. But you've had some times together, haven't you? How many times did you dance-happy with that shoe on your foot? How many times did you wear it to go see someone special? And how many times did you stamp your foot in anger, sadness, frustration, only to be stamping the shoe? I suppose you realise, that means the shoe has felt all those emotions through you. After looking at the shoe like this, will you ever be able to throw it away, or will you love it too much?

It's easier for you to know.

It happens unexpectedly. Maybe you're walking down the street or sitting on a park bench. It's evening, it's dark. The light winter rain is making your skin tingle, like you've been kissed. Maybe you're just thinking how you should've worn a jacket when it happens. A couple walks past you under an umbrella, looking into each other's eyes and laughing. You don't think anything of it and you begin to make your way home.

But as you're walking, you begin to see more and more people, some in couples, some in larger groups, strolling along, standing in little groups outside bars, warming their hands on hot mugs in brightly lit coffee shops.

By the time you get to your building your head is down watching each splash your feet make in the puddles. You take the stairs up to your floor two at a time and you slam your door behind you.

You stand there, staring around your apartment, maybe your breathing is a bit heavy, maybe you're panting a little. You're staring around at all the things you own and you're trying to find one thing, that one special thing which carries with it the memory of a friend. Something, anything, to tell you you're not alone in your life.

Later on, you'll get tired and you'll crawl into bed with all your clothes on and wrap your fluffy duvet around you. You'll lie on your stomach and you'll reach for the notepad and pencil on your bedside table. In the lamplight you'll start to write a list of your friends. Maybe you'll get one or two names, maybe you'll get six or seven. Either way you'll feel like shit when you wake up in the morning.

My greatest insecurity is the fear that no one will notice when I die.

How do you know that the memories you have of your past are real? Yesterday and the day before are easy, they just happened and you still have the receipt from that cup of coffee you bought. It is the memories from years past, reaching back into your childhood that get distorted by the funhouse mirror of time. Remember the summer when you were nine and your rabbit died? Are you sure he was actually real, or was he a product of countless hours of loneliness brought to life by a hazy memory? Or maybe it was just a dream.

It is for this reason that I love finding things from my past. They prove to me that I am real and my life actually happened.

I thought you would enjoy these.

The bird flew into my window. I was very sad for its loss of life, yet I found its final pose strikingly beautiful.