If you could see the world through my eyes

She was a beautiful, smart girl who believed in magic. Hell, I did too.
The last time I saw her was June this past year. At our reunion.
"Who are you?" she asked when she saw me, in this strange, curious voice. When I told her, she gladly remembered, and I was sad.
Sad because, I could tell by the sound of her voice and her one picture in the 10-paged 'reunion yearbook' that she was still something different, that we should be great friends again.
The others who were at the reunion were , I guess, the embodiment of Murphy's Law, at least for me. Spoiled, conceited young ladies and impudent, cocky young men. Reveling in their hellish, haphazard happiness.
But they loved her, of course. Loved how she sparkled and dressed like they did, which was no sin. Yet I doubted anyone could see who she was.





I was looking at a Deviantart page in Comp Graphics. It was an oil painting, excellently crafted with a dark, stirring perception. Mr. Okazaki was no doubt thrilled. I heard him talking to another student of his. "If you really like, you could be a painter! Do portraits all day!" he laughed heartily. When he noticed the painting on my screen, he called her over. "Look at that! Amazing colors..."
"Oh. Yeah. That's cool. The eye is kinda creepy though."
Painter, my ass. Excuse the intolerance here, but art is not something you can just do.

(I was just comparing Ms. Rychlik and Mr. Okazaki, and honestly, Mr.O would scare the shit out of anyone who thinks Ms. Rychlik is bad. Heck, he'll bark at you for 2 whole minutes and his flaming hot temper is something you just have to experience firsthand to enjoy it completely. I don't mind, though. It's the typical artist's mindset.)




Sometimes, even misery isn't enough to turn you into me.