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Thursday, March 31, 2005

Thoughts rush through my spacey head, walking through aisles at bargain jumbly stores. I have a five pound, wonderful blue duffel coat.

I had something to tell as well, but I've failed in remembering. I've had a lovely few weeks, and now I'm on holiday with chocolate from easter. I'm going to do awesome amounts of work, and memorise my demonic German 100%.

I'm going to learn to love my underpowered calculator that doesn't do fancy tricks, because it'll take me through maths like a recalcitrant tour attendant.

Daphney and I say we're in love, and we probably are. What's it like for me?
The most beautiful suspension of disbelief,
the less I believe that it will stop
the further I fall in.
I'm in love, I guess we're in love.

It's nice. We call each other honey and that suits me too.

Friday, March 18, 2005

Crystal cascades of memories open into me. Forms transient, as my mind yields views and colours that probably weren't there.

Memories are the most proud things I possess, but every time I browse through them they corrupt. And then sometimes, something so clear drops into me that I can't doubt it at all.

I'm sitting here half naked, because Summer's beauty is here early, and it makes me so cheery to look like who I am for once. Anyway, I'm in a wondrous mood (and so in love...).

Thursday, March 17, 2005

I watched her watch hands as they sternly counted. It made me feel uneasily tranquil, to watch the seconds flee from the present.

On Sunday I baked a lovely cake, and Monday was back to school after a mellow weekend. Sunday nightI ignored what I could and held my head in my hands, trying to remember the facts that just slipped by. There one was: chemistry practical tomorrow.

Completely surreal next to the wooly pleasure of baking: all-purpose reagents. Collecting a gas sounded intriguing. It's true that explosions in the lab have a charm, but the experiment itself...

I do miss writing occasionally, but mostly when I sit down to do some more.

Daphney's past is freckled with disturbing events. I don't ever want to leave her really, but I know that university will change me. My life plan is to have kids and study...

Anyway, what can I tell you about? I don't even know. Did I tell you about the amazing Valentine's day? I think I did. Did I tell you that my german oral is driving me crazy?
I want to curl up. And what's worse is that I know I've had the time to, and I've spilt it down the drain. So tomorrow I'm promising to myself, and just myself. I'm doing loads of work, of course. How could I not? But it will be just me and my high-backed chair: first maths. I have some complex differentiation practice to do. And then more maths, as I complete parametric equations. Then mechanics which is only ten minutes really and statistics that is more like horus of hell, and then of course darling German which sticks in my throat like banana.

I was right actually, I can't reallllllly write how I'd like to at all.

Wednesday, March 02, 2005

I had given blood in the day, ignoring their safety precautions to cycle home, pale as night. In the night I woke, groggy, feeling the house's air weigh me down. I needed to be touched, on the stomach. I wanted her to be there, but I put my palm flat down on me and pressed with both hands until my stomach forgot.
I wrote 'touch' on my hand, to remind me.

My skin's bruised where the tape on the needle was, my mind bruised from hours in the steaming bath. I feel good about school, about life and especially about Daphney. She's holding me as dear as I hold her, maybe even moreso. She's holding love in her palms, and wants to nurture it. I can tell. She navigates it carefully, scared it'll shatter and leave her hands bleeding and torn. Organic glass is what it is.

I know I haven't been writing, and it feels different than good to be doing it again. Not bad, but like I'm fishing up some more of my heart to try and fill the page with.

I look back through some of it, and the stuff from ages ago seems real. The stuff from last week or whatever... Who cares?

Maybe everything I write now will seem real at some point. Maybe I'm synthesizing reality as I go along.

I guess that's what this has been about. (I'm not giving up, you see. Just don't want to give when I have nothing, or give when it's time I'm lacking.) I like looking back, sometimes. Sometimes it's comfortable and sometimes not, but it normally feels real. I can see how far I've grown. Maybe it's my adult extension of marking heights on the kitchen wall.

But what I really came to say is that I can't write so much because happiness comes across as pornographically gratuitous. I'm jubilant in life and everything: I don't need to write about that. Maybe writing puts suffering in another light.=, but that light takes the secrecy off happiness. Writing it down seems to me like I'm scared it's escaping.

I want to live in it.

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