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Wednesday, December 08, 2004
My early day's already gone, spent sparingly on dog-walking and talking. Wise? No. But oh well...
There's an excuse, and it might actually qualify as a story. I was browsing some of my favourite blogs, surfing the links and seeing where I ended up. I found a girl's blog of the kind I adore: all raw emotion, filtered through bad spelling and a peculiar style. Every post the style evolves, like she's lowering herself into a comfort bath. (Oh Marcy, yours isn't like that in case you're wondering. It's perfect perfect).
So I read every post, and then stopped and my mind had a chance to catch up. I knew this writing, her story. Everything was familiar. A sick sense of incest rose in my throat: it's too private... It's like walking in on an anorexic about to eat a slice of cake. I'm scared their shame at discovery will stunt their self-perception forever. She may never write down what she feels so openly, never have that freedom if she knows I'm there.
(z is a really ugly letter in this typescript). The blog was Daphney's. I was mentioned three times: I have an enviable family. I am grouped with teachers and parents in types of people. She thinks she's gonna screw us up.
I phoned her, and asked her if she had a blog. She said no. Are you sure? Are you sure? Are you sure? I don't believe you. I was right, of course. She "remembered".
It was hers, but not real and not private and not really anything. She and a friend has set it up of boredom.
When I had started it though, before I knew it was hers, I thought it was someone new and amazing. Everything about her drew me in. I wanted to know this girl, to hold her. And isn't it stunningly, Godlily lucky that I do know her? I know her and have her to be near me, which is beyond sunny and into the empyrean.
Not even statistics will damage my mood, so I'm off to do work before a hell-cloud comes my way. Bye!
There's an excuse, and it might actually qualify as a story. I was browsing some of my favourite blogs, surfing the links and seeing where I ended up. I found a girl's blog of the kind I adore: all raw emotion, filtered through bad spelling and a peculiar style. Every post the style evolves, like she's lowering herself into a comfort bath. (Oh Marcy, yours isn't like that in case you're wondering. It's perfect perfect).
So I read every post, and then stopped and my mind had a chance to catch up. I knew this writing, her story. Everything was familiar. A sick sense of incest rose in my throat: it's too private... It's like walking in on an anorexic about to eat a slice of cake. I'm scared their shame at discovery will stunt their self-perception forever. She may never write down what she feels so openly, never have that freedom if she knows I'm there.
(z is a really ugly letter in this typescript). The blog was Daphney's. I was mentioned three times: I have an enviable family. I am grouped with teachers and parents in types of people. She thinks she's gonna screw us up.
I phoned her, and asked her if she had a blog. She said no. Are you sure? Are you sure? Are you sure? I don't believe you. I was right, of course. She "remembered".
It was hers, but not real and not private and not really anything. She and a friend has set it up of boredom.
When I had started it though, before I knew it was hers, I thought it was someone new and amazing. Everything about her drew me in. I wanted to know this girl, to hold her. And isn't it stunningly, Godlily lucky that I do know her? I know her and have her to be near me, which is beyond sunny and into the empyrean.
Not even statistics will damage my mood, so I'm off to do work before a hell-cloud comes my way. Bye!
