Outlet For a Crowded Mind

She sat there for hours, staring at nothing in particular. As she attempted to compile her thoughts, the peace of the moment made her foot tap. A mindless flip of a page in the history textbook also revealed how shaky her hands were.
What was going on?
Her head rested gently in an open palm. Quietly she watched as people who looked vaguely familiar walked past her wooden table perch. It was evident her eyes longed for a conversation but she allowed the opportunity to float away.
Next time, she thought as she had thought many times before. The moment past and her lips curled around the blue, sailboat coffee mug once again. For some reason it didn’t matter what happened after this day or after this moment, yet that did not stop them from coming.
Days always change into tomorrow and present always passes. The speed varies, and she reveled in this one evaporating idea. She couldn’t quite grasp it and hold it tight but she longed to, a longing which she hoped would never die.
“What are you writing?” the barista softly interrupted her mindless thinking. She gladly accepted the interruption.
“Nothing in particular,” she fancied her replied was a lot less flat than it actual was: being without any depth. He hadn’t left yet but she looked back at the few scribbled lines and tapped her pen. Again she imagined that her action did not show irritation but more of a longing to be interrupted again. He noticed irritation and walked away.
She wasn’t fazed.

She sat there on that concrete sidewalk. Writing. What was she writing? I wanted to take a peek. Why was the urge to get inside her mind so strong?
I’m no longer afraid. No longer scared of exploring the darkest inner workings of what we call, our mind. Thoughts are thoughts, when they drive our action that is when I’m afraid.
There are so many thoughts. Right now:
No I can’t even take a guess to what they’re all thinking. All of them. All of them outside my mind.
Do people think about different things when they’re smoking? When they’re on their cell phones are they still thinking about where they feet go as they walk? What does that guy’s shirt say? How old is she? … Are people alone most of the time? Yes, I believe they are. I am alone most of the time. I am fully aware of where thoughts can drift to, of what actions can be carried out. A thought is a thought but actions make it all real. Why did that scene have to show up? Why was I alone when I watched it? Why did I look for it the next time?
The girl on the sidewalk, I never want to hurt her. I’m broken. I can’t rewind, I can’t erase images. God didn’t include that as feature in the mind, but he did include reruns, pauses and fast-forward. Skips.
I skipped ahead to when I reached out my hand to her. She grasped it so softly yet held tighter than I had expected.
What have I done? I know I started the beginning to an end. I couldn’t give her everything, she would never understand everything. The scenes won’t ever stop replaying.
A cloud went over the sun. Her neck was the only warmth in my hand.
She showed me what she was writing. It was beautiful, it didn’t make any sense, but it was indeed beautiful. She shared it all. In a paragraph and a half, she gave me everything, a gift I could never return. It told me that she’d understand when I told her; she would hold me close and say that she cared about me and not what I’d done. The embarrassment… alone…
She would say that, I believed she would mean it, but she wouldn’t know.
Fast-forward was hit again, God flipped ahead to relieve the most lovely of images. Her in white, velvety blossoms in her hair, I thought that she could smile forever and I would never be unhappy again. I wanted to hold her, I wanted to kiss her in all purity I could muster. I would try and try hard, for her. For her smile.
The images lingered, in a deep cavern they waited for their moment.
I held her, knowing finally what sexual purity meant. I was healed. Her skin was close against mine and it was fine. My chest loosened as she gently took my ear lob in her fingertips. I love you. If someone were to ever teach me to imagine the unimaginable, it would be her. She would.
The images were buried, more deeply than ever, nothing would release them now… nothing. But there they are. They are to escape easily; they are pulling out everything they’ve got. Even that image, I didn’t remember that image. Was that me? No, it couldn’t be. But I knew it was. Somewhere inside, that me is still there and it has a hunger a hunger for more sights. I cannot show her. I cannot use her to fulfill those desires. The evil desires. Maybe just this once… then I can bury them again.
Why am I alone?
She was already asleep when I came into the room. So soft, so pure. My hands could not touch her; she was no longer mine. I had made her something else. I had made her a fool. A fool for marrying me, me who cannot find what he needs in her, what he desires, the evil desires. The images are haunting and they repeat and cannot be erased. She could erase me… in fact she could never have to meet me. She could meet a full man, an unbroken man. Not me.
She raised the tip of her pen to her mouth, it rested gently until inspiration struck again. She would be happy.
I let my hand drop. I didn’t reach for her, not for that. She was too good and I would hurt her too much.

She sat there and began to cry. She did not know why. Why did she let herself do those things?
What man would ever love her?