& the middle aged man has no idea.

My eyes began to wander and the words turned to faint echoes. My eyes started to do the talking, talking so loud that the echo of numbers turned to horror background music. My eyes lead me to the nearest window. A middle-aged man was bumming on a forrest green electric-type-box that was not intended to be a seat, whatsoever. His back was turned to me but that didnt hide his secret, dark clouds surrounded him and with every puff he polluted the innocent air. He seemed lonely. Just a typical human, going to college to become more successful. I'm sure he commonly asks himself why, perhaps I just hope he does so I can find some comparisin between the average human and myself. He tosses his cigerette to the ground, stands up, and by putting one foot in front of the other he moves on with his life. He continues. I couldnt help but ask myself if i'll ever be able to move on. I have strings tied tightly around my heart and mind. The end of the string leads to my current mistake, my past, my first love, my regrets, and my trials, the person I used to be. I wonder if it would be possible to cut these strings, of coarse a sarcastic smile is shown on my flushed face, as if i'm naive enough to think that all these things could dissapear. It doesnt keep me from wondering... what would it be like to be free? I remember a time when I felt free, when my boyfriend of a year and a half turned into a name brought up in casual conversation. At the time, I felt as if I was ready to do anything and everything. I was no longer tied down. My feelings turned to actions as I, indeed, did everything I wanted to. My heart was located on my sleeve, and my time was devoted to anything that would make me feel free, wild, happy, good. I was much too immature at the time to take real advantage of the freedoms I finally posessed. I didnt know then, but I was slowly and surely tying a knot around my wrist, and those days of temporary freedom.. or "happiness" were being ttied to me. In some circumstances, that string keeps me from moving on, or moving forward in this rigged journey we refer to as life. My boring memoir was disrupted by the ticking clock and I realize I can finally escape from this small space filled with equations. All I have to do is grab my belongings, stand up, put one foot in front of the other and give people the impression that this is me moving on, moving forward.