The hands that failed me (a stream of thoughts)

Today on the skytrain I saw you cry and I thought you looked beautiful, so beautiful in fact that I wanted to walk up to you and strike a conversation and comfort you and kiss you and hold you but the skytrain stopped and you got off, still crying with your headphones on and first your eyes closed then your eyes opened and your lips quivered as your steps quickened and as the train pulled away from the station I saw you walking towards your destination or maybe you were just standing in the same spot crying, and you kept on crying until angels descended from the sky and you tore off their wings and wiped your tears with their feathers but you cried still and the tears would not stop rolling down your cheeks and your lips now trembled and were wet, and I thought about you and the mysteries behind your tears and I thought about the life that awaited me and the life that I would have to live all alone unable to relate and unable to elate the plane of my soul to the same level of beauty your heart had achieved and I thought about the sunshine and the rain and my mother and about going to a job interview and getting a haircut tomorrow and my thoughts that weaved and intertwined and never stopped streaming and seeping into my very core. Days will go by and I will forget the color of your eyes and the color of your hair and the shape of your figure but I will remember your strength and the pride you took in your womanhood and to cure my loneliness I go on a webcam site and watch girls strip naked and then I cry just like how you cried and then I lay in bed and stare at the ceiling and try to envision all the moments we could have shared but did not and would not because we were both weary souls and our hearts had both been burdened by the weightlessness of life. I sit in the doctor's office and wait as I hear other patients being called and walk away one by one and suddenly the walls begin to melt and my chest starts to heave, my heart palpitates and I want to cry but I don't know why and when my mother asks me why I know not what to say or how to convey the heaviness of a burden that remains imperceptible to the naked eye and can only be felt by the one who bears it and then I begin to feel like s**t for being ungrateful because I know that my parents moved to Canada so that I could be happy, yet I only hear voices trill through the air without listening to what the words mean and I am unable to define what happiness is and I am unable to choose a direction in life without feeling doubtful even of my own existence. So I do nothing and I say nothing and I look sad like an angsty teenager but I swear that's not how I want to feel I just can't control the endless stream of thoughts that the world pours into the bowl of my brain, a bowl filled to the brim with doubts and fears. I say nothing and I do nothing and I look at the hands that have failed me all my life and will continue failing me for the rest of my life and I think about the useless nature of all the thoughts in my head that turn me a parasite who produces nothing for society. I am ashamed of my sensitive nature and I cry because I am too sensitive yet too scared to care and in the process of shutting my emotions down I discover that I cannot be a man because my hands have always failed me. So I lay down and stare at the ceiling and think about dancing upon the edge of a blade and I think about blood and fire and I think about you and your tears and how seeing your fading beauty was the only thing that comforted my soul. But enough talking, I need to get up and go out and study and go to school and get a job and have a family and do something with my life and push your image to the recesses of my mind, otherwise I will not be able to keep up with the rest of society and I will fall behind and I will be trampled underneath the boots of those who will run ahead of me with their ambitions and their promising careers. I have to forget your image. I have to get off my a*s and do something. I have to make something of myself. I have to read non-fiction instead of fiction. I have to live in the world and make accomplishments to be deemed a productive member of society. So I will say goodbye to you, the stranger on the train, for I cannot afford to be sensitive anymore, I don't have the time to care anymore. I need to get out there and be a man.