Ladies and pricks, there comes a point in life, where one likes someone. The liking is not ordinary and it weakens the man. You can't tell the woman. Because she is no ordinary woman, and all the worry makes you no ordinary as well. Every single day, you write countless of mental notes, you document and build screenplays around a confrontation, till you sicken yourself. The woman looks no less than Rita Hayworth and you feel you look no worse than Woody Allen. It gives you some respite, and then you start all over again.
What you wish is no candlelight dinners, or what happens in movies just before the credits starts to roll. You desire acceptance. An acknowledgement. You don't wish to propose -- and you deny every thought of it -- you wish to elaborate on how beautiful they are. On how they matter. That despite the world, with its sea of people, they alone look different. That they should know that; that they deserve that exclusive happiness, and how unfitting it would look on others. That every thought of theirs gives you lines, that if you sell to Archies cards, they would never go out of style. Or so you think. That you don't deserve to be a J Alfred Prufrock and you wish that it could be just a poem than a running summary of your mistaken and miserable life.
You are an old romantic of an ancient forgotten world. It's not that others not look at you. But your vision is blurred, and your intestines have somehow climbed up your windpipe. You feel weak and could merge with your shadow.
Somewhere along the line, you hear an old distant aunt has died. You didn't even know her. You feel a collective cloud of despair looms above your head. And that it only rains on you, while others carry umbrellas to shield off the rain. You wish to tell, in some happier times, but all you look for is shelter from the storm.
Maybe you've been like this, maybe you don't remember. Maybe you feel death on your lips, or maybe it's missing sleep settled under eyes.