Everybody looked so damn happy. There was big traffic on the sidewalks. I guess it was because of Easter. People are always looking for an excuse to get out. Almost all the mothers who were pushing their strollers were pregnant. Everybody seemed happy. God knows how they actually felt.
I asked her to make coffee even though I hate coffee. I ended up making it myself though because she was busy. So I made coffee for the first time and it actually wasn’t too bitter. At least it wasn’t as bitter as I was.
The moon was orange tonight. I got bored again so I went to the damn balcony and felt lousy looking at the stars. I was so cynical. I kept thinking. I’m a writer and the only thing I know how to do best is thinking. The only trouble is over-thinking, which I often tend to do.
A bunch of men are out on the balcony across from me. I think they’re playing cards. I can’t really tell because it’s too dark and I’m not wearing my glasses anyway. So I assume they’re all men and they’re playing cards while taking a puff at their cigars. Their cigars are not expensive though. I’m assuming they’re not rich.
Meanwhile, I play with my iPod, changing song after song, getting more depressed by the minute. I keep listening to a French song by Raphael; French men don’t have last names. I have no idea what he is singing, but I’m in love with my own interpretation of this song. I pretend it’s about wanting to run away, wanting to get lost. I’m a writer, I can make up anything.
I must come to a conclusion after all this nonsense and incessant rambling. But the funny thing is, there is no conclusion. There is never a conclusion. We all want to make a point out of what we say. But tonight, I’m going to let you make your own point from these sentences. That is if you choose to make one. It’s really up to you because frankly there really might not be any point.