Sheets.

Sliding under my sheets into bed--I do it every night. Every night, I go through the same routine of brushing my teeth, washing my face, and crawling under those dreaded sheets, knowing that the next morning I will wake up just as tired as I went to sleep. Not tired physically. Tired mentally. Emotionally. Spiritually. Sometimes, I seems as if that one act--sliding under the sheets--is suspended in eternity, never-ended. It is as if that action were my one reality and everything else were naught but an illusion of smiles brought about by delicious chocolate chip pancakes and breakfasts with friends. Of long walks with a man who I think I love, but internally I haven't the faintest idea what that means. Of a sense of sadness at the realization that I could spend my entire life looking for my true home and never find it. Of longing to understand what goes on behind those beautiful hazel eyes. Of missing the days when my not-yet-dreaded sheets were covered in princesses whose hair I would trace with my finger when sleep evaded my six-year-old self. Of missing the person I used to be back where all that mattered was the lime-green Popsicle I slowly ate while sitting in my favorite climbing tree. Of a curiosity as to why leaves rustle the way they do, so musical and so peaceful. Illusions. Is that all they are? Is there no other reality other than these 100 count pastel purple sheets? It is here where this reality seems more real and concrete than the sound of my keyboard clicking as I type out these words.

A hypothetical situation somewhat rooted in reality.

I suppose there are certain times where certain things should not be said, where the words of certain individuals are all to menial in light of the sorrows of this world. What I have to say is small amid this vast recession and millions of Americans looking for work so that they can afford their Starbucks runs. This is minute when put alongside recent natrual disasters and the lives lost and pain caused to so many. It hardly compares to those whose lives were smashed to pieces when an airplane dive-bombed during an airshow or the Indiana State Fair grandstand fell on the audience. The reality of the millions of people dying from aids and all the starving children tower over my miniscule issue. Amid the hurt of this world, this issue seems next to nothing. I am just one person, with few friends, living a small life. I realize I do not matter. Nonetheless, this matters to me. Because it is these little things that add up to create a larger things. Because if we could resolve issues on the level of the individual, maybe, just maybe, greater issues would fade. Because, well, when it comes down to it, why can't we all be friends?

I realize this question is absurd not only among the pain and suffering of our world both present and past, but even on the level of the individual. I know that you may be so busy that you cannot handle the stress of branching out and showing cordiality. I realize you have a test to study for, studying which apparently consists of sitting in a lounge and talking to other friends. Without me. I suppose that booth in the dining hall just must have the most comfortable seats, unlike the one I sit at. This is why you walk by this half empty table, which a year ago you would have sat at, to go back to the booth away from others. I guess the reason you never invite us along is because your car does not have enough seats. It is ok. It really is. I have my own friends, and, just so you know, I also have a car. I can bring my own seat. But, of course, you were not aware of that. We have only been distant acquaintances for a few months now. But... before then, we were friends.

Truth be told, what I am trying to get at here, is... I miss you. Trying to reason with your rational is like trying to accept the rational behind avocado pits or the beauty of rustling leaves. See, you are a really cool person. Really, really cool. I know that if you would just let me talk to you, I could see the beauty in your story. I am not asking for a deep, interpersonal relationship. I am not even asking for friendship, although I do wish it. All I ask is that you take that cold shoulder, apply some de-icer, and let me share in your smile. The front of your face is so much more lovely than the front of your hand, which says "stop. Don't look at me." go away." I want to see that--your beautiful self--in your friendship. I want to see your smile