I like to think.

So I'm sitting in Barnes and Nobles a couple nights ago (when I was blissfully unconcerned with my own life). I have my chewed on blue ball-point pen poised over a clean sheet of paper in a notebook I got specifically for this purpose: failing to write...

I always like sitting in a chair back by the gay and lesbian novel section. It's located somewhere in the back, a little removed from the circle of chairs by the window. For some reason I can never bring myself to sit in the old, worn down yet almost too comfortable chairs. I feel like all the poeple busily walking by are looking in, like it's a zoo or something. So I pull a hard backed wooden chair against the wall and pull my legs up allowing myself to stare at the covers of gay romance novels. Thinking, like always.

One thought, a memory of sorts I'm sure I've over romanticised to the point of fantasy, always plays in my head. There's a sort of viel over it now, however, thanks to my effort to block out the painful "good" things that stab at my brain. I'm much too fragile for all that!

When I come back here, I'm hiding from myself and the world. Sticking to a fake persona, pretending like words are going to appear in this nearly empty notebook poised so precariously on my lap. I introduce myself, if asked by a stranger, with a different name. Something from a song, perhaps (lately I've taken to Nonah from a Bowling for Soup song), and I pretend like I'm something much more functional than I am. It's nice to pretend for a second like I'm okay.

On this particular day, I'm watching a couple sitting a bit removed from the rest of the animals in their jungle of battered chairs and books. I always do so discreetly, making sure they hardly notice the little hidden girl in the gay and lesbian section. It's a blonde woman, maybe late 30's, with a boyfriend or husband or lover next to her. He's looking at her, she looking in some anonymous volume I can't remember.

That was what I chose to write about, because it was so vaguly familiar to me. It struck me as odd, that I could almost feel their relationship from my secluded corner. I could feel them taking each other for granted. As I looked on, I discovered the man with the graying hair was not looking at the woman, but out the window. Wishing he was somewhere else, perhaps? He had a book in his lap, like he had thought about pretending to read, but couldn't bring himself to do the dead.

That memory of this very spot comes back to my mind, and I know there's only one avenue to relieve the vile thing. I look at the blank paper and try drawing a flower in the corner for distraction. Fail. I begin my little paragraph how I always do; "We were..." It feels strange, foriegn almost. To use a plural these days is like recieving a treat for doing something good. The past tense, of course, always snatches the reward away.

I write out my memory, getting it all down in a few pages, glancing up occasionally to observe my little couple across the room. This time I meet the womans eyes, and she smiles in a knowing way. I wonder if she ever brought a boyfriend to a secluded corner in a book store, and made a memory there with him. I wonder if she can read my mind, because she looks at the man across from her and leans across the expanse. With a simple gesture, her hand on his knee, and a smile, they engage in conversation. The conversation only people in love can pull off- they exude brilliance, reminicing or maybe just talking. Using the moment to correct their ill thoughts or their acts of unappreciation.

I doubt I inspired this in the woman. But I smiled all the same and wrote it down. Adding it to my fantastically enhanced memory (putting a few empty lines to seperate them). Soon the couple left, soon all the silent men and women drifted away from their spots, to undoubtedly be replaced by new strangers with new books.

Before I even knew what I was doing, my legs itched to wander away as well. I looked once more at the covers of the romance novels we had once laughed about and replaced my hard wooden chair to it's lonely spot amongst it's more relaxing counterparts, and I left. Humans are creatures of habit. I think about it, and realize I sit in this section every time I go to Barnes and Nobles out of wishing for memories to flood me. However depressing they may come, and however false they seem compared to my present day reality.

I read somewhere it's good karma to swtich up your habits. When I went to the bookstore today, I offered myself up to the spectacle of people walking past the big window. I sat in a big comfy chair that felt as if it was swallowing me whole, and I looked at a magazing I wasn't interested in. I even smiled at a strange boy who was perusing the European History section. However much I love to think about the past, and to write and learn from the events of it, I like to think there's something just as astounding to discover in my present day, and my indecisive future.