Is this thought mine?

These are my words. Words I've written. Words I saw written on papers, but could never read myself. Words you could never understand. Words that are trapped in my mind. Words that I could not quite express. Words you didn't want to hear. Words that will eventually be used against me. Words that summarize who I've been, who I am and who I might become. Words that might mention you or others or no one at all. Words that might hurt you. Or teach you. Words that might humiliate you. Or please you. Just words that might be mine or nobody's at all, because how can I claim they're mine if I know someone out there definitely wrote these words before?

My train station

Dear stranger,
I wonder what has taken you so long to randomly show up at a train station and wave at me. You probably don't know who I am, which doesn't really matter because it's just another thing you'll never get to know, but let us stick to this: I'm someone you don't know, and you're someone I don't know, except I've been looking forward to meeting you. I've been waiting for you to let me talk to you, to tell you my complete version of the story. I've been waiting for you or someone or anyone to just aimlessly listen to my irrelevant stories and immediately forget them afterwards. I've been intending to talk without worrying about any kind of response or judgement. I've been wanting you to calmly watch tears fall down my face and actually not ask why they're falling. I've been looking forward to a pointless, random conversation. I've been waiting for you. Except you don't really exist.

Yours,
Someone who is waiting for you to miraculously show up. At a train station.

P.S. Except I hate train stations.

The split of a second

The minute we line up for the same cashier at the supermarket. The split of a second our eyes meet and you smile at me is when I start thinking. That's when I first try to figure you out, to sort you into my list, to find a suitable category for you in my mind. Yes, I have everyone put into his own category in my mind. I ask myself if you do the same. I wonder if you'd ever think of something as vague as my love for tea. I wonder if you'd relate to the fact that I prefer books to movies because they don't show you the cruel truth but let you imagine it youself. They leave the level of brutality, cruelty and ugliness as well as beauty up to you. I try to hate this shallow world, but whenever I try too hard I come across a reason why I shouldn't. I even try to hate people like you but then again I end up envying you for being so damn carefree. I know that you're probably not, but still I'd like to believe that so I'd be able to find a reason to hate you later on. I love guys who crack jokes all the time yet I can't help but feel some kind of awe for those who know how to be serious and act all mature. I think lies are why the world is still standing on its feet. I think ignorance can kill you. I'd like to believe injustice is why I want to hate the world. I don't know why we think we're different  from animals. And I think the reason why we were born is just as insignificant as that polite smile of yours that brought this whole thing up.

My story

Their disagreement. Your explanation. Their complaints. Your adjustment. Their inability to understand you. Your numerous attempts to change. Their disregard. Your surrender. Their reproach. Your withdrawal. Their questions. Your self-protection. Their disapproval. Your confrontation. Their criticism. Your hatred. Their self-righteousness. Your fault. Their oblivion. Your regrets. My story.