I tell you that it’s been six months since…that night. You look at me with that strange expression, almost puzzled, almost questioning, almost trying to analyse just exactly who I am. But not quite. I’m have grown used to it, and have invented its connotations - you half care. Part of you so desperately wants to look after me and love me, and another part can’t stand who I am. To me, it expresses your feelings so much better than your words do. It's probably just the way you look at everyone.I turn away, because I can’t stand that look. I can’t stand to be under your gaze at all, it feels so judging and so dreadfully disapproving, and all I want is your approval. You touch my arm, and I freeze, unable to remember the last time you touched me. It terrifies me, this gesture of almost affection. I know that tonight I’ll do nothing but think about it. I’ll bury myself in reflection on the meaning of your action, as I have in reflection on the consequences of six months of my own. These deeds must not be thought after these ways, so it will make me mad. Later, as the cold December night descends around us, you look at me again and ask how I am. If only I was a little braver, a little more daring, a little better with words, perhaps I would have told you just exactly how I was. I smile and say I’m fine. A bit cold I add, with a laugh so counterfeit even you must be able to spot it. I think back to you examining a five pound note on the train. Your reply to my querying look echos in my psyche. ‘Its easy to tell when they’re false. Just most people don’t look.’ Can’t you look at me with the same pragmatic observancey? Shall I now tell you how I am? I am consumed with a longing to be the person you want. I can live without you. As I constantly remind myself, I am so young. This is a crush, it has little meaning and even less importance to the rest of my life. I am channelling my pent up hormones, and you just happen to be around. If I didn’t know you, there’d be someone else to bear the brunt of my desperate urges to bestow affection (doesn’t that sound like a delightful Victorian euphemism? I meant it literally). And I can see your imperfections. I have no illusions that you are perfect. But I still find you remarkable, and you make me feel…unworthy. I want to be the kind of person you would like, the kind of person you could fall in love with. Not because this would make you fall in love with me, but because of the kind of person I would be. I hate myself for this. I want to be strong, independent, happy. I want to be content with myself. I want to be able to believe that I am lucky, and special, and a nice person. When I sell myself to myself, I want to be interested in purchasing. I blame you for this, planting in my mind the idea that it is you that is filling me with such excruciating self doubt. But like the list of my good points, I cannot believe it. I have no one to blame but myself, for I have forged my own personality and decided my own future. The fact that I cannot stand either of them is unfortunate, but it is neither the fault nor the responsibility of anyone but myself. Least of all you.
< - >
* the marks of memories forgotten
* wasting emotions, over again
* intentions, and such
* nothing unusual, nothing's changed - just a little older, that's all (damien rice : amie)
* now I understand! It doesn't make sense because it isn't supposed to
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