In the still and the chill of the night.

I remember what it was like to have heart and harbor the possibility that anything might happen.

Instead I find that I am the instigator, bringing mystery, allured, excitement to everyday life.

What am I doing? Really? What am I doing with him?


He's not for me and yet I continue this almost ridiculous Amelie game with him. Maybe I'm just jealous because I am Amelie, but he is no Nino. He will never figure out who I am and he will never find a way to play with me, like Nino did to Amelie.

I strive for this different type of life that will hold a love that utterly enchants and the only place I find it in is when I do it, and pull all of this anonymous bewildering tricks that do intrigue the person of my interest but at the same time I don't think they can give a damn. Because really who can relate to me on, who can be that person for me to create that type of love for me?

Who is the Nino to my Amelie?

No one.

It hurts.

It pains at me. I remember how magical moments seemed and I want to reach for a bottle to forget.

I'm trying to forget what they meant to me and it comes back at me and I need to forget already. I need to move the fuck on.

I'm going back to my book. That's all that's left for me to do. It's the only way I can move on with my days and get lost in the writing so I don't have to go on living with these stupid memories.

I will find love and live love, and experience it how I want to. In the pages of my books, through my characters. They will have all I never can have, and they will be beautiful.