So you went home today and for once I actually watched you fade away into the winter evening and my heart emptied itself in a moment.
So you are homeward bound and I am still here, part of the city which you so hate.
Am I also a part of the things that you so hate?
I know you love me, I promise I do,
But sometimes I can’t help but wonder whether you see me more as a part of your undoing or as something which is going to heal you and pull you together.
I never feel as distant from you as I do when I am next to you.
Your people envelope your world, your perfect friends,
I so insignificant in my worries and joys and freak outs.
All uncalled-for sorrows, two rotten petals in a bed of roses
And you with your bed of thorns and tears.
Me embodying excellence and you barely surviving,
My ray of hope blinding you in your hopeless existence,
I don’t want it anymore.
I want sympathy and to whine.
I want to hold hands in endless group therapy sessions.
I want to give up; I want you to look through my eyes.
I want you to explain yourself and your actions.
Why don’t u stop shouting and listen to me?
Why don’t you forgive me?
Why won’t you forget?
Can we ever live in peace?
Me guilty as charged of neglect and heartlessness,
You, perfect in your constant devotion.
My unreasonable silences and demands for attention and
You, such a martyr in your uncomplaining misery.
It is becoming impossible to live with this perfection.
I will not try so hard for so long.
For I doubt its worth and doubt your love.
I question the use of this depth of feeling and I want to get out of this gorgeous prison.
I want you to never come after me.
I want you to leave me be in my self-pity and depression
I want to be allowed to wallow in this masochistic hatred of myself.
I want to allowed to kill myself, if I so chose.
I want to regain control over my existence, for it is meaningless to anyone else.
The spices are missing and frankly, I don’t miss them all that much.

Continuing from my unintelligible ramblings about the so called big idea I have to say that there is no idea. That is no definable idea and like a permanent fill in the blank one can insert a word, a phrase and for those few modern philosophers, an actual idea. The question that remains through all this irrelevance is whether there is anything like an idea. An idea by a standard dictionary definition is generally something that has occurred, usually for the first time to a great or small intellect and is distinguished by its seeming uniqueness. But what is there is actually no uniqueness and all ideas have at some point in time or the other been throughout of. While the concept itself is scary, the stories of supposed heretics burned at the stake because of their picturisation of strange machines which seemingly invoked the devil, are not a rare find. So those unaware of those actual ideas which literally went up in smoke would assume that they are the first and therefore deserve recognition while all they are are a poor man's genius, deluded by visions of originality clouding there mediocre lives. Calvin however is not one of them. Hobbes is not his imaginary friend and all those who fail to empathic with Calvin's inability to make his parents understand that Hobbes is actually a disguised rampaging tiger are unfortunate in there mediocrity and their tame acceptance of all unusual being impossible. The acceptably abrupt conclusion is of course that grown ups don't understand anything and it is an eternal drag for the children to have to explain everything to them. (the little prince...Slightly modified)