-- Posted by lazy butterfly at 1:36 pm on Aug. 17, 2008 We met again, today, myself and this strange girl I cannot get off my mind. This time, in the bus station. And, after we spoke and shared a hug, she convinced me of the dullness of my own life. She, smiling, happy to be alone in the city, doubtless meeting someone exciting or doing something worthwhile. I, same as ever, going home, speaking to no-one, feeling hostile to all. Our encounter convinced me to go for a walk alone. I missed my bus, but wandered through town. I tried to shop again, but could afford nothing. In my heart, I had hoped to see her again, to ask her for coffee, to brighten our day somewhat. Of course, it did not happen. I will not see her again, unless I see her name or face on a screen someday. I will sit, alone, with my deferred dreams of success, dreams based on a decided lack of talent, and she will appear. I will remember this afternoon. I will remember her lead in a school play at the age of fifteen, where I had a non-speaking role. I will remember her leaving her coat in an English classroom, and me taking it home, to give it to her the next day. The whole evening I kept the coat, I anticipated her smile and attention for the brief moment of relief when she got it back. I know that, when I see her again, I will be insignificant among the thousands in love with her. But, I hasten to defend myself. I sound as though this girl is my sole concern. She is not, I simply recount all my experience of her in one short paragraph. We are the same age; she is a little older by a matter of months. Aquarius. I only mention, because it befits her. She is warm and gregarious, she is genuine. I have often defended her beauty and talent when it's been under attack by jealous others. She is not an obsession, but she is a remarkable presence. Perhaps, one day, when she becomes well-known, I will reveal this to be about her to a small group of fans. She will never read this. I am becoming far too desolate: it is not her that I love, it is an image. I cannot love her, because she does not know me. I don't know her. I love another, and truly, with every part of me that can love. It is odd, this love; it is like fear. At times, I reflect upon the woman I love, and I am overcome with fear, which makes me quite unsure of what to do with myself. It's a feeling I cannot find words for; whenever I try, I end up kissing her. Something in my mind tells me I should try speaking in another language, but, when I do, I am limited by my own lack of knowledge. I know that, if only I knew the words, I would finally say all I have ever needed to. It is strange, that the sounds feel fuller in my mouth, making me want to speak, to confess everything. But, for now, I must make do with my clumsy dialect and lexicon. Oh, I've described her many a time. You may be able to draw a picture from what I have said, but it would not do justice to her. I don't deny any talent on your part, reader, only on my own. Perhaps you will see her, too, on your screen in the future. Perhaps you will know her as soon as you do. It is possible you will feel the same fear in your chest, that you will love her as I do, and that you will suffer the same loss for words that inevitably emerges when faced with, how do I describe it? When faced with her.