Some days I want to hurt the people closest to me, just to prove to them that I'm a horrible person before they decide for themselves and leave me anyway. At least if I hurt them it will have been my choice to drive them away, and I don't end up floundering through that dreadful feeling of helpless desertion. Some days I want to hold on to them for as long as possible, enjoying the happy times now and ignoring the constant feeling that I'll end up all alone. Some days I think that relationships are pointless, since they always end with getting hurt or hurting. How do you enjoy something when you know that all it's leading to is pain? But still, some days I meet cute boys who make me laugh and the pain seems so very fair away. I'm so silly and hormonal and scared and lonely, or perhaps scared of being lonely; a pair of brown eyes look up at me slowly and I've fallen again. I can't seem to care about Plato and Shakespeare, although I should and I'll have to if I'm to pass these exams. I envisage myself stretched out on the lawn of an Oxford college courtyard, enjoying the sunshine and reading Virginia Woolf. I want to be left alone with Orlando, the Ramsays, Mrs Dalloway and Rhonda, but how I will achieve this fantasy I do not know. I want to talk to people who see, who understand the reason I love literature, the way it has defined and shaped me, the way it's littered with ghosts of former people, my former selfs and the selfs I may have become but didn't. I want to be able to write with coherence, with a smooth flowing lucidity, I want to make people see the dazzling beauty of words. I want to not feel so scared about the future, so certain that I will be left behind, or allowed to run ahead alone. I want to hear sincerity in kind words and like myself the way I used to, but I am presented with so many examples of my own lack of goodness that it seems impossible to ignore them. I smiled at a girl I have known for years this morning and she didn't smile back, and I remembered my cruel words and her springing tears and wanted to blame alcohol or someone else or her at least, but couldn't avoid the fact that there was only myself to blame.
< - >
* 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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