20

So my safety nets been fraying at the edges for a while now. The holes are getting bigger. And with one big punch to the face, and a couple of exams while they're at it, it'll break completely.
Nerve-wracking hey?

Lets see if someone will employ me, eh?

A.L.E.C.

No, it's not some boy in year eleven. It's Awkwardly Long Eye Contact. Recently, so many forms of awkward eye contact. Having trouble counting. There are two in particular.

I know a boy with beautiful eyes. Wide. Soft. Warm. And I find his gaze comforting. But he never breaks eye contact. I mean never breaks eye contact. Sometimes I wonder if his eyelids work properly. Or whether he's just making sure that he doesn't miss a single detail of what's being done. Maybe that's why its more rewarding to hug him. Because I'm not being so intensely viewed. Like surveillance, almost. Without the judgement.

The second event I have been thinking about none-stop since lunch. I had been playing the piano in Braur hall, and the room had been slowly filling with lunch-eaters. I stood and talked to Bec. She was distressed. This was eased, and some light hearted humour was exchanged from both sides. It was then that a lot of things happened quickly, and in slow motion. I reached out to brush the back of a friends hair. Male. Just got a haircut. You know the drill. He pulls me into a side hug, although a little more affectionate than normal side hugs are concerned. We hug like pros, there is no room for awkward hugging. It was over his shoulder where everything slowed down. For a couple of seconds. I gazed out across the expanse of the hall. Usual suspects filling the surroundings. Apart from one group I was shocked to find there. An individual was looking in my direction. He was looking at me. Watching how I was interacting with my friend. And then turned away. I wasn't quick enough for the shrug off, I had to run over to his group to ask a question. He didn't look at me. And he didn't speak to me.

I hoped for more eye-meetings across homeroom. I hope that I can make coherent sentences next time I speak. But I can't guarantee. PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE don't have the wrong end of the stick. That's all I hope. Or want.

I wanna catch my death of cold, cause I'm scared of growing old. Don't return the love I gave.

You're still my favourite.

Guilty.

My eyelids are feeling heavy, but I really should have done more today. Guilty Guilty Guilty as Charged. :)

Let us go and fail the trials shall we?

#117

I keep having this dream. I don't know whether it means anything or not, but it just feels like it's important.

I have a light purple dress on. Long. With flowers. No shoes. It's warm, I think springtime. And I'm walking through this beautiful green countryside. Green countryside, like Ireland green countryside. It's beautifully quiet, very few trees near the dirt road and not a person in sight. I can see a house very far away.. and I'm walking toward it. It's not too big, but not too small. Quite narrow. A vine crawls up the sandstone to rest underneath the second story window. It's fenced with a little brown picket paling. I get closer, and I feel more calm, but more rushed at the same time. Enthusiastic. I walk in through the gate, with it squeaking familiarly and I walk up the path. The front of the house has three windows. Two big ones at the bottom level, and one on the top right hand side. It's a cream-washed building. I walk into the house, and it is fully furnished. Familiar.

No one is home.

So, I walk up the flight of stairs, and take a right into the bathroom. I wash my hands. The towel I dry them with is soft and white. Then, I walk back down the stairs, through the kitchen looking briefly for a note that I don't see. I don't know who I expect a note from, or why it doesn't worry me that it's not there. I proceed out the side door, through a garden of strawberry patches. They are ripe, but small. And I head out the back gate, jumping over a small stream as I leave the property.


It's nice. But I wonder what it means.

When you were little.

I knew you. When you were little. When you don't remember. You inspired me. You disappeared to another country. Spoke things that didn't make sense to me at the time. And I played and played and played, hoping that you would hear me learning the song you told me was your favourite. I lay in the grass one day in December.. or maybe it was early January. You asked me how I was. You cared. Care. That was special to me. I had met you, for five minutes.. and you cared.

I still play. Sometimes you listen.
I listen to your record too, sometimes.
For the record.

I still cannot work out poetry.

Poetry needs understanding through the senses.
The point of diving in a lake is not to immediately swim to the shore. But to be in the lake. To luxuriate in the sensation of water. You do not work the lake out. It's an experience beyond thought. Poetry soothes and emboldens the soul to accept mystery.