In conversation with self:

I am mixing up conversations, conversations I’ve had with actual people and conversations I’ve had with imaginary people in my dreams, I remember my dreams now, I suppose that’s a sign of a healthy mind right? Wait, what am I talking about? All this is so random. Let’s talk about something specific just like people prefer to, let’s try and stick to the topic, hush! I can’t let you wander all the time. 
So I met this boy, well, to be more accurate I didn’t really meet him, I observed him, I walked in a restaurant full of people I did not know, and there he was lean and tall, he looked like those elite, sincere type. We looked at each other for a brief second and I swear I felt a connection, the kind where you feel so strongly that if you tried to get to know this person you’d get along with them, you’d get close to them and maybe they will make your life interesting if only timely. He was on the other end of the bar and somehow we managed to acknowledge each other, pretty much as soon as I arrived. It was a slam poetry night, I was there to read my poem out loud; I was unprepared among some excellent poets with even more excellent public speaking skills. I saw them chatting in groups while I stood there pretending to be on my phone, I thought about making conversation but they all seemed occupied, so I just waited for my friend to arrive who was struggling to be on schedule because of traffic. I walked in and out a couple of times, and glanced at his table time to time. He wasn’t exceptional; he wasn’t gorgeous or extraordinary, so why was he so appealing? I wanted him to talk to me and sit with me on the table or maybe I didn’t because the music was loud and if we ever sat on a table together I’d want the music to be jazzy and soft. I noticed how his shirt looked good on him, the way he stood with his hands in his pockets and how it made his shoulders look edgier. The girl he was with I assumed for some reason had friend zoned him, they did not look like they were romantically involved, He walked slightly behind her like a gentleman though and that was very attractive, he was mostly looking at the floor and his quietness made him come across as a mystery which made me want to know him even more. But I didn’t do anything; I just stood there looking at him casually. Wondering what hid underneath that entire demeanor. I was one of the last poets to recite. To my relief the crowd had thinned out but that didn’t stop me from messing up, my poem wasn’t the slightest bit slammy, awfully short and sounded like an anxious 5th grader struggling to read aloud in a classroom. I guess you can tell by now that nothing really happened here, yet I am writing about this guy, I don’t even know his name, maybe I would if I stalked him really hard on Facebook but to be honest I don’t want to know. I like writing about strangers, I like writing about the absence of event at an event. There is this dullness that I’ve embraced, I’ve accepted that life is not a movie and it is not necessary for something to always happen, I like how things end without a proper ending. I am starting to like how most boys I’ve adored never said goodbye. Or how I never summoned whatever it takes to talk to a cute boy or how I could probably call my best friend and tell her that I feel lonely and she would probably make me laugh but instead I just sit and stare at the walls in my room, or how I keep wondering which direction I’m headed but do not wish to know. And even if my life was a movie, it was definitely not a romance comedy or a thriller; it couldn’t possibly fit into two to three hours. It was one of those long ass boring drama movies where there isn’t much drama but you just call it drama because you don’t know what else to call it. It was the kind that leaves you feeling stupid for sitting through and don’t really impact or inspire you, the kinds you only remember because it was such a waste of time. If my life were a movie there would be no closing kissing scene, or a cat fight, or an adventure, or much dialogue for that matter. There would just be imagery, schizophrenic thoughts that played like songs in the back ground, silence in the middle of a conversation portraying how zoning out when someone tried talking to me was a basic trait of my personality, lip singing in my car, traffic, traffic, traffic, a lot of walking solo and a hell lot of clustered city surroundings, staring at the fan on my ceiling and blinking, blinking, blinking my way to sleep.