A/N: This is really weird - I know that. But I would like to know what you make of it and/or how you interpret it.

It is a world of Squash. I do not like squash, but, perhaps, squash does not like me. But it is mine. I like it there and, albeit, somewhat similar to here, I disagree. It is like the ever-so-simple motion of crying yourself to sleep. Its silent, wracking sobs are the gracious lullaby that lulls you to sleep and they are the caressing touch that calms you into a sense that everything could/may/perhaps be okay. They are not my best friends; I only know them from a distance (but then, do I know my friends or are they themselves at the end of the 50m dash? Or even further, as in at the other end of the 800m relay?). I digress…

They, even though they merely know my name (if even) they belong here more than anything else you could name. There’s one guy, an American I can tell from his obvious New Yorkian accent. I like him. He’s nice, easy-going, and the sort of guy who can put anyone at ease. Also, he has a younger sister who means the world to him which reminds me of my own dear brother. Ah, bless the brothers of the universe. But yet, I don’t identify with him. Even though he possesses all the qualities I have/wish to have. And not-so-surprisingly it’s not the girl either. But then she is a cheerleader and amazingly peppy. But, no, she’s not the stereotypical bitch. She’s nice, just… I’m not a peppy person. “Go team… err, how does the rest go?”

But it’s him. I do not like him. He’s a jerk and a stupid one at that. Not stupid as in lacking in intelligence mind you. He’s a genius with an IQ of 200 or something of the like. I’m sure he can name all the presidents in order, recite Hamlet backwards, and do moderate physics equations in his head in 1.056 seconds. And he’s not a jerk as in a jock jerk. Nah, it’s just a defence mechanism which, alas, makes him seem like a jerk.

But, somehow, I identify with him. I deny it or at least don’t admit it but I think I know why. We’re alike. Well, duh (but I can’t say the presidents in order, recite Hamlet frontwards or backwards, and nor can I do any physic equations in my head). We’re both stubborn. I’ll grant you that but, it doesn’t change anything. I hate him. He just shuts himself off from the world. Not a loner (at least he’d argue the label) but a person who lacks the need for people. But he wants it. He wants people. And I hate how he just goes on with life ignoring that want, not caring about the pile of regret building itself in his closet along with a few other skeletons. Damn, here is not the place for this. Actually, it is, but not out loud. We never acknowledge it nor do we bother saying those skeletons exist, let alone affect us. Because here is a place of my own. My place. Ack, I’m jumbling up my words (again).

The comforting of the ones who know nothing and the company of the one who shares it all. That’s what this place is. And this place is mine. I own it. Do you know how good it feels to own something, for something to be yours? You can’t even own your own name. How many Laurens or Alexs do you know? What could you own more – than your hopes, wishes, or your dreams?!

Alas, sadly, damn that frog in the hippopotamus’ throat, this place doesn’t exist. So, I ask, or don’t, perhaps. I stay silent. But then, perhaps not. All I know is the door slammed on my fingers. And it hurts.

Thank you for reading.