Every story needs a title

This is a story about myself... As in, i'm the protagonist, However it has a twist in that... It's about my present. so.. imagine your reading a diary, in story-book form.

This is a story about something which means the world to me, but very little to anybody else, its my story about myself. Everybody has one, and it's a comforting thought to think that everything that you do, has been done before, by thousands of people throughout history. Most people don't think about it though, most people dont think about anything, they just live out their lives in perfect isolation from all but a tiny fragment of the Human population. perhaps that's for the best, but i feel that i should at least try to make myself be remembered for something, and in this age of "knowledge" and with 6,000,000,0000 other people to compete with, i feel that perhaps, i should just make a record of another person's life. And illustrate how it's the little things that nobody else knows about that make the big differences to people's lives. In an age where everybody looks to themselves I feel that perhaps, a book about someone else wouldn't go amiss. I don't know if anybody will read or enjoy it and I wont pretend to, in fact,It's strange to think that you don't know anything. In fact, as one clever person once said;" humanity as a whole knows less than a millionth of a percent about anything".

  You don't really beleive that when you're 16 though.

   That was my problem. I thought i knew everything, how everything would turn out, how my life would unfold before me in a pre-planned, dream-like sequence of scripted events that would allow me to live life as i wanted to. That nothing could change what i wanted in life.

   And then, something immeasureably irelevent almost, negligable happened. Something that will never be remembered for more than a second after I'm dead and gone. Something that no one will ever mention, or laugh about. Nobody would even know it happened. But it did, and it changed my life... forever.

   I fell in love.

   It wasn't a slow, gradual thing like they tell you. It was a sudden, split-second realisation that this hazel-haired girl, who stood before me telling me she didn't want me to leave, was someone who i wanted, more than anything in the world, to be with for every second of my life.  And it scared me.

   Have you ever been there? Probably. Most people in the world will fall in love with somebody at some point in life. It's funny how it always feels like you're the only two people in the world to feel such a powerful, gut-wrenching emotional tide. Like you're the first two people ever to say the things you say. But what do I know? im a 17 year-old child from the suburbs of Manchester, and regardless of how many experiances i've had for my age, I still know far less about life than you, dear reader. And perhaps, We were the first people to stare into each-others eyes and tell each other we didn't want to leave.

But i Doubt it.

   Apologies, I digress. The story that you're about to read my friends is one of my life, but before you put the book down and complain about how it's going to be a boring diary of pointless monotomy, at least read until the end of the first chapter. After which, you may do as you please and i will think no better, or worse of you than anyone of the other stupendous numbers of people on this little blue planet.

   My story begins Almost two year's ago. August the 2'nd 2009, It was a beautiful, summer's day and i'd just returned from a day in Manchester with a girl whom at the time i really liked.  She wasn't called Sophie, but for the purposes of this story ( and because she wouldnt be pleased if she found i was writing about her) she was. Now Sophie was everything you could ask for in a girl, Smart, Beautiful, Funny. And that evening she sent me a text asking for us to start a relationship properly.

  I laughed, and I smiled and I ran to the closet to get a Jacket. Out of the door, earphones in and set off along the twenty minuit walk to her house. All the way there I couldn't stop smiling at the thought of us two together, singling aloud whatever song happened to come up on my shuffled I-pod. Not caring that the people sat outside the pub on the way ,just enjoying the evening looked at me as if I was some form of delinquent as I practically skipped past them yelling out lines from Three Doors Down. When i reached her house, she came out to meet me, her short-ish Brown hair still damp from the shower, her Virginia hoodie obviously just thrown on in a rush, her make-up marked from drips from her hair.

 And she was the most beautiful thing I had ever seen.

 That night we spent hours sat ouside her house, in the warm night air. Her step-dad ( a huge, stern fellow with a neat beard) came out and asked if we wanted to sit inside, we refused. Her next door-neighbour ( a dear old lady who was scared of Sophie's dog) came to enquire as to our health and whether we were locked outside. Again we explained and politely declined her offer for tea and biscuits. They didn't understand. We were both, the happiest we could ever remember being. We didn't need a sofa, or the TV, or a cup of warm tea, We were perfectly comfortable sat together against the brick wall of her house, The hours of conversation were far better than any TV programme, and the warmth of our combined bodies made a warm drink unnecesary. We were happy, and that was allthat matters.

Happiness Is just a feeling though, and feelings are easily forgotten.

   

The End

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