I think I'm going to write a book. I already started. This is the very beginning.

This isn't a love story. Although, this is a story about love. I guess we should start with introductions. I am a tragedy and in this tragedy a hopeless romantic fights the standards of society.
I never understood why my breath had to show on mornings like these other than to shove it in my face just how frigid it is outside. I'm sure there's a completely logical, technical explanation for it but I'm not a very strong believer in technicality. Truthfully, I'm not a very strong believer in anything.
Bus rides are always the best in the mornings but I prefer none at all. There's always screaming kids that act like there isn't an ounce of maturity in their bodies, blaring headphones, playing repetitive beats with ignorant lyrics to top it off and a headache to match it all. I've had so much practice at tuning everything out though I could be sitting in a meadow of flowers for all I realize right now. Staring out the window, I see nothing that's actually there until a swamp comes into view. Every morning we pass it as the bus driver follows his daily route but this one spot always captures my attention. It's not the swamp in particular but two swans. They're always in the middle, swimming together, right next to each other. Every single morning it makes me think and every single morning it gives me another spark of hope only to diminish by the end of the day.
We arrive at school and nothing is different from any other morning, as much as I wish it would be. The building is still in tact and the kids are still running around like children at a birthday party. A breeze came down but instead of causing chills it was a warm gust and I felt a slight burst of optimism as I headed through the front doors. I searched every face in the hallways sort of looking for context clues instead of watching my feet as I walked to my homeroom. Happy. Depressed. Excited. Nervous. I realized people weren't that hard to read. And that's why I hated them. We're both humans but I feel and think. They feel and do. A kid ran through the hallway playfully chasing another one, dodging students like track hurdles, but tripped over me and knocking me into the lockers. Maybe I should start "feeling and doing" rather than "feeling and thinking". Because I would have knocked him square in his face instead of realizing it was an honest mistake and automatically, against my will, forgiving him. So I keep the anger stored inside my fist for another day.