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oh God oh God oh God it really was you, you weren't lying, I can't believe this is happening oh man kick me kick me hard I must be dreaming this is
not happening to me
! I think I look quite the sight in front of the computer screen at midnight blinking through my tears of shock-and-surprise and joy, joy, above all joy, is this the breakthrough then that I have long longed for is this it oh God thank you I can't believe it you astound me you astound me right on the dot this is perfect
I'm currently listening to Iris by the Goo Goo Dolls at my computer in the living room. I'm surrounded with darkness, typing under the only light in the house illuminating the single defiantly awake inhabitant.
is my time of the night. Midnight has passed but I can stay awake all night, if I want to.
when everything's made to be broken-
when it's night-time and everything's fragile, when I am intoxicated on the cool night air and coming truly alive- this is when you must know who I am. this is when I want you to know who I am.
each time you contemplate suicide, each time it takes its form as even the feeblest of options within your mind; each time you dredge up the merest speck of willingness, tempered or no, each time you will a desire to death into life. each time, life will slip away from you like a silent shadow because you have, in thinking of death, rejected it.
each time you think of dying, you do
. watch, watch then, watch with care that your lifestream does not dry up, that the ephemeral, ethereal quicksilver of life flowing through your veins does not ebb away.
when I say
go away, leave me alone, let me be, I don't want you
, what I really mean is: I'm afraid of trusting you again. my doubts about you are strong, so strong, but I still want you on a fundamental level. I don't want to desire you, but I do.
try harder, love.
my barriers and shields are up, but continue, I want you to break through. show me you care enough to go beyond the first refusal, the second, the third.
the door is closed, but the windows can be pushed open. find the windows, love. find them.
the light at the end of the tunnel doesn't just stay at the end. sometimes it hurtles towards you, and it's terrifying to see the lines of light race smoothly closer toward you, accompanied by the glare of the headlights growing stronger and stronger and drowning out everything. It's unnerving. Sometimes, you see, you forget you're protected from this onslaught by the plexiglass doors you stand behind. And sometimes you don't want the light at the end of the tunnel to come, even thought it's supposed to signify hope, that the wait is over, that it's time to move on.
Where are you,
you ask, and I suddenly want to scream
here, here, I am here!
I have been waiting a long time for you. I have been here, I am here; I will always be here. Find me, don't let me fade back into the crowd, don't let me once again be part of the nameless and faceless mass and mess of people. Perhaps of all things I fear, I fear losing my identity the most. I am proud, in that way. Another key that would work well on me- you have to
me. Pick, choose, and treasure.
it's embarrassing when you talk too loudly and too much about things you know little about, or push yourself onto grudging people, or assert empty claims. it's demeaning and damaging- I wish you wouldn't. I wish I could tell you that you would be a much better person if you weren't so acutely insecure. and I keep wanting to tell you, things would be okay if you'd just let them be instead of trying to carve out a corner for yourself you don't quite fit into. be yourself- you would be so much more comfortable and better liked for it.
I can already see how this is going to unfold. History repeats itself, and I know how we will both act. And I think I'm going to have to stay away from you
the past months if I don't want the carefully-tended wounds to reopen and get hurt again. I still am volatile beneath the surface, though I thought I was over that- surprise. The short story is that anything goes for you, but I am not ready, and you understandably will not over-extend yourself if at all. Recipe for disaster, not going to work, so why try.
you would not entrust your secret to the postboxes installed around the school. the community is too small for that, thousands strong though we may be, and there aren't enough shadows to hide in. there are people who know you too well, people with minds too keen and intuition too sharp- too many people will be able to realise they were reading
be found out.
unless, of course, you make it blindingly obvious- unless you hide in broad daylight.
but there is much power in a secret, and even more power in the keeping of it.
There was a steady stream of commuters at the interchange and amongst them an old man stood rooted to the ground, in front of the tv screening vcds of a long-ago opera singer. He stood still in the midst of the rush hour as the world continued revolving around him, outside the time-stream for once, gazing hungrily into the screen- almost as if the flickering images and high song would transport him back into his past. You could see his hunger, his eagerness and yearning as he watched intently, leaning slightly forward, straining and keen and wistful all at once.
Not everyone belongs to this time- I wonder if I will be like him when I am greying, straining to listen for echoes from a distant past, attempting to catch elusive memories of laughter, times and companions like butterflies in a net of fragile smoke and haze. I hope I will have learnt to weave stronger nets by then.
How would it be like to stand static in the fluid world, to be unable to keep up with everyone around you? How would it be like to be left behind? How terrifying would it really be like to be an anachronism?
there are techniques never spoken of but unleashed in combat, techniques guarded jealously and passed down from generation to generation, guarded with sworn vows and spilled blood and inherited with pride and trepidation. these are secrets soaked in magic and shrouded in shadow.
and then there is the letting down of guards within a team, the necessary sharing of these secrets and shedding of suspicion. it is imperative to know the techniques of your teammates well, to shape your own to complement theirs as they reshape their own to suit yours. the weaving of group strategies to form a beautiful threnody.
in the end, it's still the same few things that get us riled. this is what I take issue with: don't dismiss people so quickly. empathise, try and understand, acknowledge,
it's a basic obligation to at least represent them correctly to yourself, to the best of your ability. you owe them that much.
I don't know why, either. do unto others as you would have them do unto you. I may remain irrational in my disliking, but at least I try not to have an inaccurate idea of who you are. and darling, don't shoot your mouth off.
there's what you comprehend with your brain, objective and sensible and pragmatic. but then there's what you know with your heart and grasp without needing to use the tools of logic, what you instinctively understand and know to be true. and this is what you truly believe in, though it may defy reason.
Her feelings were her own, and could not be altered from outside. It would not have occurred to her that an action which is ineffectual thereby becomes meaningless. If you loved someone, you loved him, and when you had nothing else to give, you still gave him love.
revolution is a thoroughly exciting idea.
we find through the centuries a recurring theme of revolt, a feeling that history had somehow gone wrong, and had somewhere taken a wrong turn
only, don't ever let it stop once it's started. or we might find out what once was might have been better than what will be. or we might find out as the dust settles that we foolishly rushed headlong into the excitement, into the chaos of the moment. and we never had a plan for the future. we might find out we never had a replacement for what we overthrew.
I would like nothing better than to go off on a holiday to another country with just my friends. We'd have such a good time talking late into the night about the only things we ever really talk about: life and love. It would be perfect after the As, as we stand on the edge of a precipice, leaning dangerously outwards. we'd breathe in the last of our freedom within the structures built for us, and then we'd step out as the last of them collapsed and we scattered to the four corners of the globe, free, and we'd
somehow, I manage to leave my mark in each thing I select or do. I've lost track of the number of times someone has told me "that's so you!" in response to an icon I make, or an icon I pick for my display picture, or a poem I read and liked and posted on my blog. I like it, though. I like being distinct. I like knowing I have a certain style without even trying. I like bring unique- I would apologize for this guilty pleasure, except I know everyone likes it when your sense of yourself is recognized.
finally. finally, you're passing out of my mind, out of my conscious thought. it's like a cloud shifting away, like the long-awaited and sought-after breaking of a fever. they're over- the hazy and confused frenetic days in which I scarcely knew what I was doing, in which I couldn't help what I thought or felt.
but at last, and though it lasted long, at long last the thought of you is leaving me. your
is finally distant enough. my vision seems clearer, my mind sharper. I feel like breathing in deeply, like raising my head. it feels like dawn.
again I am struck with the peculiar feeling of
. the point towards which one tends, and from which there is no tendency to move.
you see, I am at the moment staring out into the night, at the myriad of random but abundant lights in the distance, struck more by the blackness of light than anything, completely at peace despite the econs test tomorrow for which I am under-prepared, and the A levels in the distant future. I realise with a deep conviction that that in this moment, I am perfectly content.
I do not want for anything.
if I am so easily contented, how is it that you find me even vaguely interesting? I'm simple, I'm vapid, I want to be more than what I am right now and in general, but it will never happen because there is a distinct limitation I have that I will never overcome. I do not know who I am, even. My logical thinking skills are tragically weak. I will not go far in life. I
- and I have little will, as well.
I am my own definition of boring. Surely your definition can't be too far removed from mine.
memory isn't what truly hurts, it's a harking back to the past, to what should rightfully be sepia-toned and crumbling at the edges, not vividly sharp in flashes of colour in moments of connection. it's a desire to return and the fact that the importance of what once was hasn't yet faded, even though it should have. it's not memory that's the curse, it's the inability to let go.
and yet, at the same time- how much of a curse is it, really? how many times have I smiled from flashes of memory? alright, now I'm definitely getting woolly-headed. cue exit!
it's terrifying. the future is terrifying. I've always been one for structures, for doing as I'm told. I study for tests and graduate and progress from academic standard to academic standard like everyone else because that's what I'm supposed to, and there's comfort in knowing where I will go next. But it's all falling away, now. The end of the system is in sight- and it's a huge blank nothingness that lies beyond the construct. I've no inkling of universities and scholarships, of more important lessons that lie ahead; I've no idea what the future holds and it terrifies me.
I can't wait, I can't wait. I feel like I'm on the cusp of something, like if I wait and hang in there for long enough, something good will come my way. and for now I'm not filled with my usual sentiment of
hope too hard and you'll be disappointed; don't hope and you won't get hurt
. this time I'm optimistic, and rightly so, because induction is never reliable, and I understand that innately even though the present and past may be painful. I haven't exhausted what life has to offer me yet. hell, I'm too young to be pessimistic.
one small party of me...deep down, after all this while...is still telling me you were once my friend. it's a small, pained, painful voice. and that part of me is still asserting those long-ago bonds of attachment on basis that they were once strong.
maybe what I am is not so much person-loyal as
-loyal; that would make sense. that part surfaces every so often, reminding me of how we used to be. I...yeah. I still miss being your friend, sometimes.
how did I lose it? and more importantly, why am I still mourning it, albeit occasionally, five months after it died?
The rain, the rain. I dislike the rain. I dislike getting wet. You used to know about this, if I wanted to I could pinpoint the exact date of your acknowledgment of this, and the exact date I withheld my umbrella, pretending not to have one, just so he wouldn't feel like a third wheel. If I wanted to, I could pinpoint the exact date of
text message I could ever recall you sending me.
This is bad. I'm doing it again. Automatic association and conscious connection. This is bad. I thought I'd forgotten.
...heh. As if. As if I'd forget.
But I'm going to outlast this. I'm going to outlive that portion of me that remembers. I won't smother it, but I will watch it from a distance as it shrivels from lack of sunlight, and asphyxiates from a lack of air. The passive killer. I'm going to outlive that portion of me that lapses into memory and a desire to remember and return. I'm still going to be standing when that portion of me ebbs away and dies. Just wait; it may take me time, but I'm going to make it out of here alive. Just wait and see.
and this is why we will never have peace. not just because the end of the world is predicated on its absence, nor because of specific conditions and intransigences in specific conflicts that bar peace, but because of human nature, and because human society is established on the basis of self against the other. we need an enemy to hate. it's written in our DNA code; it's played out in politics. think of the ease with which you form cliques. think of how much easier it is to hate than to love, to stereotype than to walk in another's shoes.
leave it, girl. you left him as a much better person than what he is now. try not to, don't tarnish that memory if you can help it. you do not want to, nor will it do you any good. Char darling. sometimes, for better or for worse, you do bring out a better side of some people.
you've learned a little from last year. just a little. just enough to keep you out of snares, for now. don't fall into them- the extraction, as you have learned, is terrible.
I'm lonely for company, though, aren't I? silly girl. terrible, terribly foolish girl.
, but rather the
pretty. are not anything other than average.
a leader. are not distinctive enough (hell, people don't know me by my real name. not that I mind, but I do mind how people sometimes call me by another's name).
able to think smartly enough.
able to hold opinions of her own.
too easily contented.
unable to strive hard.
unable to go far in life.
are not somebody. are nobody.
sometimes, when you're not looking, you find small gems in everyday affairs.
lines in a SAT I practice test that could have been better crafted, but have lovely sentiments all the same.
Thomas Wolfe said that going home again is like stepping into a river. You cannot step into the same river twice: you cannot go home again
. Written similar to his style, too.
nice lines from a literature lecture that enable you to finally identify with the character.
the definition of
a steaming bowl of instant noodles, soup, an egg and luncheon meat. God do I love the world right now.
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