You Are

This is a stream-of-consciousness.... it's not supposed to make any sense.

The hall was hot and crowded. People talking, yelling, moving, being. My bag was heavy, I think there was a textbook in it. Why was there a textbook in my bag? I was holding a cup of coffee, bad cafeteria coffee, but it was good in some masochistic way. No, maybe it actually was good. I'm not a masochist. I think I was coming from the library, but I wouldn't have had coffee in there, so maybe I was coming from the library. The hall wasn't really a hall, more of a crowded place you weren't supposed to crowd. I was trying to walk in the direction of my class- the stairs- without getting pushed under the cold air vent. I made it to the stairs, upperclassmen's backpacks in my face as I climbed. Someone yelled, I thought it was you. I turned, I looked for you, but it wasn't you. Mentally slapping self, it wouldn't be you.
I'm back downstarirs again, walking from the library, and people are talking, whispering, averting their eyes, pulling jackets and boyfriends' arms and hair tighter around them.
It's raining, and everyone's wearing pearls and bowties and black tights and pants and shoes, the girls' dresses stickig out of the bottom of their black raincoats because it's raining. Hundreds of people, walking in the rain. Boy's shiny black shoes walk next to the girl's, stepping in puddles and laughing even though I'm sure they're going to a funeral.
Who died?
Going to my math class now, with it's off-white-ness swallowing us whole. The rooms here are all white, with clocks without second hands. No, they have second hands, just not second hands, hands for seconds. The off- white rooms with their two- handed clocks and blue chairs, assigned seats. I sit next to Mr. Strum Strum Guitarboy Stringbean England, with the orange rape- whistle on his backpack and the blue eyes and the guitar. With a guitar, anybody can be amazing. With a guitar, you're amazing. Without a guitar, you're Stringbean England who can play the guitar.
But
he's
not
relevant.
What is is that I don't know why I want you to be calling my name, I don't know why or where I am or how. I don't know if I want you to be talking to me, I don't even know why you are. You are shiny and green, you are oblivious, you are the one with the beautiful laugh, you are nice and funny and smart and you are, and then you are her, You Are Her, but you're her, no damnit, no, don't, you are the boy with the scarf, and you are the catastrophe and you are the girl and I knew it was you, and you are not making me argue this side, you are amazing, you are, you are her again, you are not emailing me back, you are you and I am me and I hate words and you love whatching them collapes in on themselves, I hate words. I hate the ways that they form themselves, the ways that they manipulate us.
The ways the we manipulate them.
How confusion wasn't enough.
I know you didn't really love me.
But your drawing is still taped to my door,
the one from Thursday?
I was mad at myself and
wearing your hat
and yes, I knew and
yes
you were kind of completely amazing.
Don't-
(no, I can't
write this.)
No.
Never mind.
It turns out I can't be mad at you
after all.