I see the answer to my loneliness in your smile. It’s an illusion, one I’ll never be able to realize. Untouchable. And the warmth in your eyes is thawing my insides. I think this is called hope. I think this is called growth. I think this is called stupid. Hope, slow down. Heart, stop thawing.
I have no words. They’re sucked out of me. Suspended in a vacuum resulting from a silent phone, and some memories. On repeat. On repeat. On repeat. No forward motion. This is how people go crazy.
She’s talking about travel. She said she wants authentic experiences. Her favorite travel memory was when she stayed at a small town in Spain–there was no running water. She bought sage for pennies. She has a friend from Spain. A “mini” her. I guess it’s a younger girl who speaks Spanish as a first language. She’s saying now that she wants to travel more.
And she will take a question and spend time answering it. As much time is she needs. Probably a more than average amount of time. Most of her answers include an allusion to more friends, her phone was blowing up this morning. Three people messaged her. She likes Star Wars. I don’t know much about him. He hasn’t talked often in their interaction. I don’t think there’s space in the conversation to, but his arms are crossed. He doesn’t like star wars. She told him his childhood must have been lacking.
She’s explaining her childhood home now in great detail–the color, the rooms, the garden. She just told a story about her mom’s dog peeling off the wallpaper. He told her it was hilarious. But he wasn’t laughing. I don’t know what the nature of their relationship is. They’re around the same age. Conversational dynamic: Her – 93ish percent of the interaction. His 7% contribution is usually a question or an affirmative comment like “Oh, that’s *insert adjective: big funny, weird, interesting, hilarious, etc…)*
Across from me there’s a man, maybe 21. He has a backpack, and a latte he finished drinking, a water bottle. Right now he’s staring at his phone. For a couple of minutes, he was reading a Bible–a black one with bent pages, and a torn cover. He put it back in his bag. He’s been here for 30 minutes, maybe. He’s by himself, he’ll look up when someone new enters the room. His leg is moving up and down like he’s impatient or has too much energy. He seems stressed. Uncertain. He just left.
projectingpeople 