Missing

Is it that you are actually missing someone or is it that you miss the way they make you feel about yourself? Are those two mutually exclusive? I myself am not sure. When I miss someone it's first about how I'm going to feel. The initial feeling that you know will come sooner or later when you are alone sitting and thinking: "well it would be nice if they were here." Then later you are laughing really hard at the TV, and want to turn to that person and get a response - they aren't there. Later when you go to sleep and you lie and have that moment right before you go to lay down and know they won't be there. Or that single moment right before you drift off to sleep and you dwell on them, you think about what they might be doing, if they are thinking the same about you. Sometimes you forget about them being gone, and you hear something funny or want to ask them a question, but they aren't there to hear it. Missing someone isn't about them really, it's about yourself in a way. The missing puzzle piece like in those lawyer commercials late at night, or the drug adds about Alzheimer's, or autism ads, they are gone from your life. They, usually, feel the same way. Maybe that is what missing someone is really about. The mutually shared emotion of felling helpless with out each other. That you feel like your day could not possibly go on with out them. It does, and so does theirs. Missing a person is like forgetting to set the clock on the VCR. You don't really know what the feeling is until you have it, yet everyone knows what it's like. Everyone forgets about it at times in their day, but its somehow still there glaring, blinking to tell you to fix it.

You try and live the memories of them though. The way they look when they laugh, or the way they roll their eyes when you say stupid things. It makes everything worthwhile when you see them again, in that one moment everything is forgotten when reunited.

Groggy and rolled over.

When I woke up this morning, a single white cloud floated by my window.

Columbia

God damn, just tell me where to send my graduation info, please.

Gaming

There is this weird connection that I get when playing online. It's not really of true friendship, nor is it a distant aquantence that you nod to on the street. 95% of the people that I talk to on a daily basis online I would never know if I saw them on the street. Only a hand full I may notice because I've seen pictures but nothing that I could tell a sketch artist.

I don't sit in a random chat room talking to strangers. These are people that I have, in a way, gotten to know over a full year period. The strangest thing is I'm not sure I would have enjoyed my last year in college as much without them. I confided in a few, and even would tell them things I wouldn't tell a best friend (and didn't). Maybe there is something that could be said about the faceless disconnection and how I fell like I can say anything to a person that way.

Dive Bar

It wasn't the smell of old smoke and the fresh air rushing in, it was the smell of everything. It combined and rolled into this growing feeling of sadness. The ceiling was dropped so low I could run my hand across the blackened tiles. I'm sure they used to be bright shinny silver that reflected light into the now dark dust covered corners. The guy's bathroom was a hallway with a toilet at the end of it and a smudged mirror from waist high up on the left side. It was positioned in such a way that if someone came barging in they could catch your eye and see what you were holding in a glance. I tried to situate myself so all they saw was my back, but exposed myself on the right side to a quick glance down the tunnel of piss. I only call it this because only twenty minutes after getting there pee was covering the floor. Stickers coverd the far wall too, white squares with a picture of unraveled TP saying something about poopoo and food. A green sticker used to be on the inside of the door, streaks of lime green show the direction at the attempted removal. There was a room next door full of smelly people that when the door the sweat stink of that kid from middle school's armpit would waft into the bar.