the sun had slowed things down, you see

I stare. I stare endlessly into the black tar that covered the basketball from corner to corner. Time had yet to exist as a variable. I lay on my stomach atop two plastic skateboards. I use my feet to go two and fro, in the same spot. I loosely trace circles on the black rubble with my index finger. With my face parallel to the floor and only three inches away from it, I see everything at a ninety degree tilt. Alternately beaded yellow and white plastic jump ropes slap the floor. Basketballs roll out to the corners of the court. Pogo sticks squeak as they bounce past me. I was content. We were all content.

I stare at the puddled floor of the girl's bathroom on the ground floor. I hate how the flush never works. The water continues to leak, slowly adding to the puddle. I lean against the tiles. I know they are not clean, and I wouldn't ever lean against the tiles. But I lean. I have more on my mind than the never-been-washed square white tiles. I kick the wall. Nothing happens. The echo of the exhaust fan is mind numbing. I stare at the disgusting wet floor and wonder what the original color of the tiles was. Ten minutes have passed. I still do not know what to write. I tell myself to gather composure. As the words of my standard motivation speech recite themselves in my mind, my tears find it easier to slip out of the corners of my eyes. My vision is blurred. The questionable color of the floor still bothers me. More tears. I clench the tiny papers in my hand. I have forty four pages of chemistry micro-xeroxed in my hands. I still don't know what to write. Time had passed me by too fast.

So I ask you, what's the point?

I talk for hours in my head. I stare at your face. I smile. You smile. We talk. It's the same. I have you convinced. You think nothing is wrong. You think it's the same. I dodge the can of worms as it rolls on to the stage. It's not the right time, I tell myself. We smile, we shake, and we're on our way. You're on your way to a set of arms that loves you and to a pair of ears that listen to your words and most importantly, you're on your way to a set of lips that tells you what you wish to hear.

I talk and talk for hours in my head, and there really is no point. If you heard even a fraction of what I had to say, you'd shrug your shoulders, make the most repulsed face you can and you'll again be on your way to those arms those and those lips. You'll discuss your bruises. You'll discuss my flaws. You'll discuss everything of mine that I wouldn't yours. Those arms will cradle you and you won't need me to bring you your medicine.

I apologize. I look at your visibly pissed off, but still cute face and I say that I'm sorry. This doesn't convince you. Why should it? I'm feeding you lies anyway. You roll your eyes and tell me I have issues. I crack a light smile and say we all do, don't we? You look to ground and raise your tone. You tell me I'm no longer receptive, and that it's a problem. I sigh because you're no longer a good critic, and that's my problem. But I won't say this because it might prove your point, and my ego isn't dead. So I shut up and listen and I try to fix it with a hug. You lean in with dead arms as your eyes roll themselves out of your sockets. I feel pathetic. Dead cats give better hugs. You usually give better hugs. But you don't ever hug, do you?

So I stand with just as much to say as I had to yesterday. But I want you to be the only one to hear. But I'll never find you alone. So I feel like shit for thinking things that sound this selfish. Because somewhere in this rant, I want you to be alone. Maybe just as alone as I stand now. That's a terrible thing for a friend to want. So I no longer want it. I don't decide to tell myself that I'll try to not want it. I just no longer want it. It's wrong.

Days pass me by, faces cross my path. I laugh. I yell. I crib. I tease. I bid goodbye and return to my bed at night. I talk to my parents on the phone. I check emails that bind to my past. On some sunny afternoons, the sight of the sunlight on the bricks of the wall reminds me of the slow days that escaped my share of time simply because I was dreaming. I think of what I love. I think of what I should be. I think of my circle of comfort. And of how the radius has decreased as of late. I find it sad that I try to stretch it further bit by bit but only to find it relapse pass the original point. I think of how you're in it. You're in that tiny little circle that seems to be shrinking. When this thought crosses my mind, I get up and turn to walk towards you. I imagine the things I have to say, and weigh the acidity of my words before they trip off the tip of my tongue. They are sour. They are sour enough to trigger that repulsed face of yours. The one I hate to see. You make that face in my mind, and the sight of those extra arms, eyes and ears appear. They scoff at me just as you do. I don't want you to scoff. I want you to hug. And not like a dead cat would. So I decide to dodge the can that rolls in again. because I don't dodge it, you'll scar my future thoughts with that hideous face you make.

So I pause and deal with the momentum of my intentions having to be suppressed. It is an unpleasant killjoy sort of feeling. I purse my lips and ask what's up? You shrug and say nothing... nothing special. You're on your way out again. So I get back under my blanket. It's warm enough to make me forget about the diminishing radius and the speed of time.

So I ask you, what's the point?