The Lonely

It's simple.
Really; so, so simple.

Just a few sentences. A handful of words. Strung together to form lines of thoughts, with hidden meanings tucked between.
But she doesn't know the meanings.
Can't crack the code, can't understand when only now does it matter.

Oh God, how she wishes it was in person. Or at the very least a phone call. You can hear emotions, but you can't read them; not when they're wrapped in cold, surgical-like letters.

She's curled, hunched, reading those sentences and tapping out a reply while silent tears form slowly in her eyes.
She'd forgotten.
How could she forget her?

I should probably formally apologize for the utter garbage I posted previously today.
My thoughts are a tad skewered, I suppose, and frankly, I'm unaccustomed to writing from my own perspective, as so many of my writings recently have been focused on other characters.

So.
Yup.
There you are.

Juliet Wins out the War

My sister's boyfriend just left our house for the last time.

Somehow this entire situation, the last few days and this morning, felt akin to a war movie of sorts. Surprise attacks from the "enemy side", "peace treaties" offered and refused. Then the "general" calling the "enemy" before the "battle", because apparently their husband has a confrontation issue. Gotta give it up for projection.

Anywho, I've been on the sidelines this whole time. An uninvolved bystander, to this cheesy remake of Romeo & Juliet. And it's confusing, to say the least. But I do know that he just left for the last time, that all those afternoons and movie nights out with my sister and him have ended, are never coming back. He was an extraordinarily nice guy; smart, but not egotistical about it. Didn't mind my "tagging along". He was a great guy, and I was happy for my sister. But I will never really be able to comprehend the pattern of... love, so to speak? I guess thats why I'm still just a bratty little, "teenage" girl. Does it ever get easier? Do the plots ever clearly reveal themselves? Will I ever shut up?

Probably not.

But I have concluded that I am an egotistical hypocrite. I'm also a pyromaniac author, apparently, so lets just say I am one huge mass of contradictions and try to return to the topic beforehand.

I can't help but wonder how things are going to be, from now on. What will my sister's next boyfriend be like? What will her ex-boyfriend's next girlfriend be like? How long will it be before my sister gives me a genuine smile? A blissful laugh? What's going to trigger the influx of memories in a few days? Weeks? Months?

Why do I write about romance, when faced with situations like these, I swear never to involve myself with love?
Hence the hypocritical mass of contradictions.

But when I hugged him goodbye and whispered "I'm sorry", his eyes were red.

Meet Pandora

It's been a while, but I find this evening that there is still yet hope.

What a wonderful and blissful sensation: Hope. This evening I told the advisor I was leaving. Of course, they asked numerous questions as to "Why?", and I'm surprisingly pleased with myself for not going down any dark strains of conversation and not letting my emotions get the best of me. I wasn't sure what to expect, waiting for the advisor to arrive, but I don't think I could've done a better job. In a way, it makes me proud, I suppose?

My Forced Distance from What I Call Society

Oh, but am I a hypocrite.

I think I've mentioned it before, but I'm so hypocritical, I occasionally contemplate introducing myself as "Hello, I'm a hypocrite."

Truly.

That bad.

So it's not entirely surprising that I tend to bemoan my lack of close acquaintances, when I distance myself from a good number of people. It's not as if I hate all people, or just hate social interaction. Nope, nothing like that. It's just. . . Well, I'm not sure what it is, or really how to explain it, I'll be honest here. I'm just fickle and contrary and extremely hormonal. And sometimes I really just wish that life were novel, or that I could fall into printed words.

Needles and Keys

It's impossible to just have a normal night in my family, apparently.

My dad just has to do something. Yell at someone. Get pissed about something.

Fun night out at a pizza joint?

Yell at his daughter and storm out, leaving his wife to pay for the pizza and ask for a to-go box.

Casual night at home?

Yell at his wife (Instead of his daughter? Oooh, variety!) and swig beer, leaving his wife to go out on the front porch with tears in her eyes, waiting for the daughter to come home.

Leaving me to go outside, do my (pathetic) attempt at comforting her, text my sister informing her of the situation, telling her to "be careful when you come home" and then retreating into my room with note book, laptop, typewriter and my new National Novel Writing Month Young Writer's Program work book. And so to the soundtrack of Sky Sailing, I'll leave this monochromatic world and enter one of my own; still monochromatic, but perhaps with a few pastels thrown in to encourage hope.

And with that melodramatic sentence, I'll see you all. . . Well, when I see you.

Welcome to Life

I found myself wondering if I'm a psychopath this evening.

Wow. What a stellar way to open an entry, huh?

But my dad is acing the whole "testosterone raging bull" act, my mother is being annoyingly docile, my sister is. . . well, being my sister. And I'm feeling oddly unaffected by the entire situation. While my dad stormed off without us, I just hoped he'd come home soon, because I left my yarn and needles in his truck for a knitting project.

So why am I being favored? Why do I feel oddly unattached and emotionally neutral about all of this? I don't know. It's rather queer, really. I'm just sitting here, knitting and typing this. I don't really care.

Please Wipe that Look Out of Your Eyes

"It's driving me to doubt myself,

simply, it's tiring."

~First Love, Adele

I shudder to think of how people would react if they could read my mind, if they knew everything I do in a day. Thats not because I'm paranoid, but because I am, in a certain sense of the word, pathetic. The mere idea of anyone knowing what I do, what I think, makes me want to curl up into a hole and just stay there forevermore.

Not to say I do particularly atrocious or undignified things. It's not like I'm some sort of prostitute, druggie or alcoholic; far from it.
I'm not proud of things I've thought of, dreamed of.

50 Little Known Facts

1. I have 3 freckles in a diagonal line on my right cheek. I also have 3 more in a horizontal line above them. The only person who's ever noticed this is my mother.

2. If someone bought me chocolates from a tiny sweets shop hours away from my house, I would love them unconditionally for the rest of my life.

3. I've broken my arms 3 times; 1 time left and 2 times my right.

4. I've had my dream college picked out since I was 8.

5. I have a penchant for going out in the middle of the street with my dad's camera and taking pictures of the sunset in my robe in the evenings.

Romance vs. Companionship

"It kinda pokes fun at being romantic for the sake of avoiding being lonely."
~Adam Young, talking about "Deer in the Headlights"

When I watched the above video, and heard that part, I froze for a second.

There's a line I have on a profile somewhere, "I am a hopeless romantic with a cynical outlook on love, but at night I fall asleep to dreams of charming smiles and twirling on star-lit beaches." I am constantly daydreaming of romantic situations and dashing, modern-day Prince Charmings.

Is the only reason I do so. . . beacuse I'm simply lonely?
It makes a lot of sense.

I love to sleep.

And thats not me being the stereotypical teenager, who clings to the headboard like it's their only hope of salvation when their parents exasperatedly come storming into their bedroom and whack them over their heads with pillows. (i.e, Freaky Friday)

Nope, its my extreme love for dreams.

I mean, if you think about it, sleeping in general is a pretty sweet activity. You lie down on a comfy bed, wearing comfy clothes, pull on a cover/duvet/blanket/sheet and then, technically, you go visit other worlds within the confines of your mind, without even leaving your bedroom. If you seriously sit down and think it over for a while, you may realize how awesome it is.

Somewhere better.

There's a girl in some big city somewhere, who falls asleep to screaming sirens and honking cars, too-loud laughter and clinking wine glasses.

In a small town somewhere else, there's a boy who drifts off every night to the chorus of frogs and crickets, wind-rustled leaves and old floor boards creaking.

Mental Maps of Childhood Memories

You had your eyes closed on the drive home tonight.

It was almost 12, and you were leaning against the truck door, listening to Sky Sailing on your iTouch, with your blue and black Paul Frank earbuds, when you realized that you had a perfect mental map of where you were.

Percentages of Illusions

I talk to myself every day.

Sometimes, murmuring snide comments under my breath. My sister always asks what I said, and I act surprised and say "Nothing,". She says it drives her insane, and wants me to stop. I say it's a free country.

But 80% of my talk-to-myself is different then what my sister thinks of it as. It's when I'm alone, when I'm in my room, when I'm trying to fall asleep.

Technically, I don't talk to myself then.

I talk to the figments of my imagination.

Take Me Up There with You

I woke up reluctantly to my mother shouting through the door this morning.

As per usual.

Then wrapped my blanket around me like a robe and shuffled out to the kitchen.

As per usual.

But then I sat down at the kitchen table, and my mother asked me why my father had been so annoyed with my sister last night.

Senior readers of this blog will already know the rocky relationship between my father and elder sister. For any new readers, lets just say it isn't pretty.

The Caged Bird who Swallows the Key

Well what do you know?

I'm back.

Only after... well, 7-ish months. Okay okay, I know that I fail at maintaining blogs. Or any habits, really. If I don't do it everyday, I don't do it at all.

However, somehow, My mother has decided to try and support my attempts at becoming a writer, and wants me to write a blog. I decided to just start updating this one.

A Digital Pandora's Box, Where Hope is a Blog Comment

Cover Girl could make millions of dollars on a memory concealer. Or maybe Apple could copyright a memory USB. Just stick it in, put some memories in it and poof! You don't remember them until you want to. I say this, because I have (again) neglected this blog. And when I checked back and re-read my entries, lets just say my own little Pandora's box of pain got flung open again.

However, I actually have a follower. Which is a pleasant surprise. And, to reply to your comment Ms. Claire Valene Bagley, I suppose this is supposed to be secret. In some sense of the word, anyway.