1:07am, 8^th October 2009

The comfort of my room and bed seems pretty nice about now.

I can’t exactly say that it’s not a party.

By the looks of it everyone’s living it up.

Birthday parties should be enjoyed after all, right?

The glowing city lights don’t distract me as they normally do.

Did you want a clue on why?

It’s because while I sit here with an overly inky pen and discarded pieces of beer carton cardboard, you’re in there enjoying the contents it originally held.

It’s too painful to look inside.

Didn’t anyone ever tell you it’s bad to binge drink?

I would like to tell you, but’s pretty darn obvious you wouldn’t be able to see through all those other bodies that are grinding against you.

Listening would be out the question.

I can barely hear myself think.

I wonder if the heat they’re generating is enough to keep you warm.

It’s actually rather chilly outside on the balcony.

Would the thought of my presence ever cross your mind?

My chest tightens, and brings an all too familiar pain along with it.

But it still fails to explain me whether it’s my head or my heart that instantly replies with: not bloody likely.

It’s comical to have attendees ask me what I’m doing as I sit out here, twirling the pen in my fingers.

I couldn’t answer the question myself.

The question of ‘why did I come again?’ comes to mind, but I dismiss it.

Because the state I’m in surpasses far beyond disgraceful, really.

In a state of ‘here; but not here.’

Too much of a chicken to voice my opinions.

Too much of a coward to tell you what I feel.