Saturday, February 27, 2010

Springtime; a Ring a Ding a Dingtime. Birds sing-ing. Sweet lovers love... The Spring!

The trouble with the rearranging of the room is the mess that follows. Because, naturally, I couldn't just move my bed, bookcase, dresser, desk, and the like without having to purge the closet of unneeded clothes and stuble upon many a random object which my inner PackRat is utterly unwilling to toss.

Junior year has been a change for me. I became myself over the course of this year. Though, yes, I've always been myself, but I think I reached that destination to the fullest extent this year. So far.

I no longer stay in my shell until I warm up to people; I'm perfectly content, now, being my bizarre, obseen self right off the bat. People probably wish I wasn't. But I am.

Not to mentoin I'm pretty now. Not saying that to fall back into my recently escaped Bifu land, but truthfully, looking at pictures of me just last year, I've blossomed.

Thank you orthodonist.

And nature.

So naturally I must attend to my surroundings and dispell all those things that keep me linked to the me of the past. She was a good, lovely, spunky little gal, but her term is up. It's time to remember her in pictures and humorous journal entries; not every corner of my room.

So, oddly, I am able to admit I've caught the spring cleaning bug.

And perhaps that's part of this newfound me. Perhaps, and I'm not carving this in stone, perhaps I like to clean.

Or perhaps I like adventure.

And that pile of miscellaneous is my grandest adventure to date.

Friday, February 26, 2010

Today's Atmosphere: Cloud Nine

I like Pop Tarts.

This is how I feel about them:

I fear-Darling
The machine ate the tape.
I fear-sweet thing,
That the hour's growing late.
You hold the door-forever,
And I'm forever away.
But your door's not mine;
Oh, your door's not mine.

I have gone-too far
Into my own head.
And now I'm-stuck hard
'Cuz I can't get enough of it;
Enough of you-this time,
Though this time just won't quit
A minute hand.
The longest minute hand.

And I don't want to swim
At the speed of light
If you're stuck where you are.
And I don't want to race
With gods and angels alike
If you're just a distant star.
Darling, I know
For me to love
But there's something that you've just got to know:
Life ends-where you end.
Love goes-where you go.

I look-with longing
At what's not too far away.
And I know-what's coming;
What will change and what must stay.
Kill this pointless space-between us,
Or it will be the death of me.
Suffocated air.
Just suffocated air.

And I don't want to swim
At the speed of light
If you'r stuck where you are.
And I don't want to race
With gods and angels alike
If you're just a distant star.
Darling, I know
For me to love
But there's something that you've just got to know:
Life ends-where you end.
Love goes-where you go.

And it seems to me-to be simpler
When it flows across-the room.
My heart couldn't be much emptier,
Knowing it's not part of-you.
These gaps aren't made to stay there,
But they aren't filling too.
Let me slit my throat and lie-down.
Let this blood
Bleed me through...

'Cuz I don't want to swim
At the speed of light
If you're stuck where you are.
And I don't want to race
With gods and angels alike
If you're just a distant star.
Darling, I know
For me to love
But there's something that you've just got to know:
Life ends-where you end.
Love goes-where you go.

Baby this life-will end;
And this heart will beat.
And this blood will flow
Red, through the streets.
It will stain your shoes,
And bleed right through
To the core;

Please know I couldn't love this more.

The best part of swimming
At the speed of light
Is getting where you are.
And I'd race
With gods and angels alike
If I could win one blessed star.
Darling, I know
For me to love
But there's something I'm surprised you don't know:
Life ends-where you end.
Love goes-as far as you go.

I'll go
Wherever you-go.

May our toasters all be working, and may our Pop Tarts be well worth the wait.

Saturday, February 20, 2010

Pardon My Rambling

Today's mood: Frustraited.

I'm frustraited with him, with myself, with this homework, with the setting sun, with etc etc etc...

I have this twinge inside me, this nagging pinch that's driving me mad. What does it want? What doesn't it want? It wants him to be with me, it wants me to have never fallen behind in homework, but mostly it wants to create.

I have books and ideas that flow through my head, I have characters and places and stories to be read. But I just cannont write them, the words just don't come; and I'm stuck in this limbo with a pie on my thumb. I can't eat, I can't sleep because I'm too incomplete. And I need to record this, not just for me, but for them. For the world, for all those in it, so they too may drown the sorrow with an ounce of benefit.

I want to punch something. I don't know what it is. Perhaps I'll take a walk. I need to do something. This pent-up frustration is driving me mad.

Wednesday, February 17, 2010

What You See's Not What You Get

[Author's note: I originally attempted to write this in my short-story notebook, but I hit too many distractions and it wasn't as even as I'd hoped. Here I shall attempt to rewrite it the way it should have been written to begin with.]

I brush my bangs back, unaware the mirror I'm looking in isn't the crystal reflection I've seen my life through.

The faded, smoky, jewel-encrusted mirror shows eyes of a goddess, the most fabulous blond hair, and a smile that could blow a hole straight through a mountain.

"Who wouldn't want you?" I ask myself with a smile.

I turn from the mirror.

This place isn't my bathroom. I've somehow come to stand in a large, endless room with vaulted ceilings littered with dangling decorations. The room is sepia and foggy. The lights are dim; vague, orange smudges sporadically glowing along the walls.

I stop in minor awe. This place is lovely. I begin to wonder how I came to be here, when I notice the masses of people hidden in the dark. They smile at me and beacon me come. There are smiles and compliments and glistening, gorgeous eyes...

And I want to be one of them. They float along with perfection, and their alluring smiles cause me to crave that same perfection. I look in the jeweled mirror and sense I'm nearly there. With a face like this I should be accepted in immediately.

But all the while, a feeling burns in the back of my being. It's uncomfortable and leads me to fidget, but with each approving smile it escalates. I take this adrenaline for happiness and continue on my way.

With each word I speak and each word returned I feel that rush. This must be what acceptance feels like, what confidence feels like. This must be what I've been missing.

I dress before the bejeweled mirror each day. I paint my face to perfection. How is this shirt? Does it hug my curves? How do I look from the side?

And they smile at me with their porcelain eyes, and this feeling grows higher. But with it grows the crave for more. I'm not one of them yet; I must do all I can to make it so.

I'm leaving my old friends behind. In between the alluring smiles and flashy compliments I miss them. I see them down there, outside this window. But this feeling within me won't allow me to visit. If I leave this place, all I've worked for is gone.

I can't have that.

But I'm still nudged with discomfort, though I'm positively unsure why.

I lay there in bed, growing anxious for the coming day. I know what I'm wearing and how I'll do my hair. I can't wait to hear their remarks! I can't wait to see their smiles! I...

Something hits me. A freight train of knowledge collides with my brain.

I slip from under the covers, barefoot, to the ground. I make my way to the window and peer outside. It's dark from here. All I can see is the distant, distant ground below. Looking out, there is no horizon; no mountains, no trees.

"It's just a stormy night." I tell myself. Nonetheless, I lean farther out, examining the blackened fog.

Something small chips from the cement windowsill beneath my fingers and drops slowly to the ground outside. I watch it land to the dirt at the base of the building.

But the base...

I recoil back in shock. I run to the jeweled mirror, willing it not to be so. But it is. The mirror is black, and all but a few jewels have crumbled from the frame.

I reach a reluctant hand out and rub away at the black.

My eyes are dark and quiet, lined and painted in a desperate attempt to bring the life and light back to them. My hair is greasy and frayed and coming undone.

I don't try smiling.

They watch me as I gather my things and wrap them in my jacket. That strange twinge within me finally feels at peace.

"Why are you leaving?" One asks as I head slowly for the door.

I turn back and explain.

"The Devil is sly, but his vanity is slyer."

I looked in car windows and smiled at myself. It's nice to know you're pretty, it's a great confidence booster when you're having an off day. But I looked one too many times. I commented on myself one too many times.

And with each glance, with each compliment I gave myself, I became more and more consumed by the great and spacious building. It was so subtle and minor that I didn't even realize it was there. I don't remember looking longingly over, I don't remember timidly climbing the stairs, I don't remember pressing open the door.

It was all in the looking glass. Day by day it grew blacker and blacker, jeweled only to keep the appeal. I continued to look, and it continued to change.

I gave up the place I'd held before for something newer and, for the moment, better. I'd finally found my lot in life.

"You look pretty today, Erica."

The compliment was answered with a, "Thanks!"

But it somehow became an implied, "I know."

I must keep my eyes open, and keep aware of my surroundings. I must ensure the mirror won't lead me back there. Because, after all, it wasn't much of a choice. You don't choose to enter the great and spacious building.

It enters you.

It becomes you.

It controls you.

I will no longer be a slave to the world, I will no longer look pleasingly at the secular things.

I smile to my goddess's eyes as I brush through my hair.

"Pretty as always." I smile.

I use my finger to buff away the black, smoky smudge slowly encroaching the glass.

Tuesday, February 16, 2010

Big on Bifu

Yesterday I had the pleasure of viewing Percy Jackson and the Olympians in theatres. I was unable to fully enjoy this movie once I noticed the all too familiar trend to be found in the characters.

It all started (for my knowledge) when Anabeth spoke to Percy:

"I deffinately have strong feelings for you. I just don't know if they're positive or negative yet." She said (or something along these lines).

"Well," Percy responded, "you let me know when you figure that out."

And that's when my interest became detatched.

You see, in real life, I don't spot people like that.

Next to never, anyway.

Why is it that nearly all novels have characters like that? Some, in this case, as the main characters even? I truly do not understand. There are so many different types of people in this world, a good author would go out of the norm and pick different characteristics, wouldn't you think?

I then proceeded to watch the movie. The plot unravled and true motives were revealed, Persephone was a black woman, and the gateway to Mt. Olympus was on the Empire State Building. And then Percy returned to "camp" where he spoke with his centaur teacher/friend, who said,

"You left camp. You dissobeyed my orders." Percy looked dishearted. The centaur went on to say that he was proud, because you can be trained and trained, but in the end it all comes down to following your instincts, as Percy did.

And I was slapped in the face with deja vu.

Why hello reincarnated Dumbledore. Have you met knock-off Harry?

Lately I've been acting very... big headed? Pompus? I'm not sure of a word that fits other than bifu. For those of you who don't know bifu (pronounced biff-uh), let me sum it up.

A bifu attitude is simply being aware of how awesome you truly are. Positive bifu is, in fact, being aware of how awesome you truly are. And talking about it. A lot.

Negative bifu is being a downer who is moody and not awesome. That's all there is to it.

Lately I've been acting very bifu. As a funny joke, not for serious. At first.

I've found "acting" bifu and "being" bifu are separated by a very thin line. This line, I discovered today, has been smudged into nothingness. All the while I've been blissfully sure I was "acting", when in all actuality (according to my calculations) have been "being" bifu for over two weeks now.

I've even begun to dress more bifu. Gone are my rag-tag teeshirts and ghetto sneakers. Here are my low-cut V's with the white cami underneath and my red and black high tops. I've started fixing my makeup and hair regularly, I get near disgusted when my pants don't hug me just right...


I believe that's a synonym to bifu.

It doesn't help dear old Lizz had me do a photo shoot yesterday in which I was the model, the focus of attention, the hot one.

If you ever want to truly become bifu, try doing that for three hours. Try making the world all about you for three hours.

Perhaps that's why I'm late for school everyday. The world revolves around me! I won't be late for school because, heck, it's me! School can't start without me!

So all in all, it's interesting to me to have taken notice of my own character changing so much. I used to look out at my peers and I could say easily with whom I fit, and why I fit there. Now it feels like that line between who I was and the land of Bifu has dissintegrated, and here I am in my own bifu world.

Will I ever get out? Will I ever escape the grip of bifu?

Will I ever truly want to?

"I'm a leader,/ I'm a winner,/ and I'm cleaner/
'Because I'm awesome.
I don't need you/ 'cuz I'm neat-o./ And I beat you/
'Cuz I'm awesome."
-Because I'm Awesome, the Dollyrots

Maybe I turned bifu when this became my theme song...

Sunday, February 14, 2010

That Carefree Summer.

Steve and Blue had the life. If I could take anything from my childhood I would take the power to "ska-doo" into pictures and books.

It's days like today that I raise the blinds so high they are in danger of sticking there forever; days like today I actually regret I have a license and drove my car to that church meeting, and can't walk the two blocks down to my house; days like today I wish life was a book.

I love the books that take you compeltely away, and for me that doesn't always mean Harry Potter or Ink Heart or something completely out there like Keys to the Kingdom or Poison. While these books are utterly delightful, sometimes all I crave is a simple story of young teens in the summer months getting lost in summer festivities. My heart aches as I recall such books that took me away to peaceful summer times, but I don't recall their names.

Curse my elementary literary mind.

Here is a list of some that just flooded back to me:

Olive's Ocean;
Lily's Crossing;
A Handful of Time;
Dicey's Song;
Al Capone Does My Shirts;
Absolutely Maybe;
Toby Lived Here;
The House of Three Sisters;
Daring to be Abigail;
Sixth Grade Secrets;
Sixth Grade Can Really Kill You;
The Undertaker's Gone Bananas;
Girl in the Shadows;

One of these days I think I'll scorge up a group of hoodlums and break into my old elementary. While they vandalize the bathrooms I'll skim the library for the books of my youth that changed my perspective.

My sixth grade teacher told us to get in the habit of writing down all the books we'd read, so we'd never forget. I remember thinking it was a good idea, but I never did.

And here I am now, just five years later, forgetting and regretting the un-named books now meshing in my head.

There was one about several kids, and the youngest daughter wanted to be an actress; she'd grab random books from the library and practice reading the different characters. The neighbors made fun of her; and some type of prank including a pie was later involved. Or was it a cake? And I think the cake was on the girl's mom's favorite plate, and the mean girls threw it off a high bridge into the river.

There was one about a girl who found a diary in her house, which always stuck with me because the diary had each page with the date already writen on it, because the girl had to flick through all of the pages to hit an entry in June, which was the last one. There was also a ghost in the old abandoned school house. Or was it in the attic?

There was one of a girl who played the violin, and when she played the old antique one she found with a shawl in an old trunk, she was taken back in time.

One day I'll write one of these such books. One day a poor soul will sit on her bed with the blinds pulled as high as possible, thinking about all the books that changed her perspective.

And she won't remember the title of mine.

And she won't remember the main character's name.

And she'll mix the plot with the plot of three other books because she pictured them all taking place in the exact same house.

But she'll remember it changed her.

And I guess that's all writing is for.

Friday, February 12, 2010

His Ego

I had a timed writing assignment in which I analyzed a character from a book and was forced to say how I, should I take that character's place, would change the outcome.

I found it rather shocking as I tried to get into Gene Forrester's head (from John Knowles' A Separate Peace) that I would have done everything he had done. I found I've experienced the same exact emotions of jealousy and paranoia toward my own best friend. I realized that I have followed like the shadow as she blossomed and I stayed incomplete. I've watched her excell at things I thought were my forte. And only mine. But she's good there as well. And I realized that I have, in the past, done something along the caliber of jostling a branch, causing my friend to tumble from a tree, breaking their leg.

No, I did not break my best friend's leg.

But I've felt the emotion required to do so.

I was shocked that my personal character mirrored Gene's so well. I'm weaker than I had imagined, I suppose. I'm more flawed than I could have anticipated.

So, as the second part of the essay asked me to do, I suppose I'll have to change this about myself, as I pretended to change it for Gene. I guess I'll have to find my inner confidence and respect my friends for their own skill. Even if it's in areas I'm skilled in too.

Even though they're better than me, and even though I might feel threatened.

That's no reason to bring upon their untimely death.

Now, to other matters.

Egotisical. Ego-maniac.
I'm just one of your pawns.
But I ain't stayin' here-I ain't looking back.
If you'd open your eyes, I'd be gone.

You're fooling-yourself
To think I'm so niave.
You're beyond all help
So Heaven help me.
I'm failing-to express.
The defiance in my chest.
You are-no match
I'm not-coming back.
Close the curtain.
Bring up the lights in the house.
Cuz I'm not coming
For you
And your health.

It kills me that... That I get this air of... superiority from him. And in all actuality, in all reality, all I want is to call him friend. I'm past that stange of helpless puppy-dog love, and yes, he's "bright" enough to have seen that I was head-over-heels, but I suppose his eyes were only opened to it so that he could remind himself when he's feeling down that, "Hey. That girl, she likes me. With all her soul she likes me."

And I bet that makes him feel good. And that's all we love-struck girls want, isn't it? For that boy, that god, to feel good. Right?



You see, there's a certain moment when a plant comes to realize it's not being nuroished where it is. So, it goes away.

Blind, blind, big-headed boy! I have left you. I am gone. And still you speak to me with this air of "I know you're smitten. I know what I do to your heart."

And you are the dumb one, not me, never me. I was dumb, for thinking perhaps you weren't this way. But I've served my time under the dunce hat, and I've left.

And you cling.

To me.

Didn't expect that twist, did you? Weren't expecting you'd depend on my for your very breath. Because, Parasite, without my life being dedicated to you, you die. Without every fiber of me fawning over you, you crumble. Do you see it yet? Do you see those drooping leaves? No. Because...

Because you don't want to. You are too stuck on yourself. You are too pompous, too egotistical, too bifu.

And how can that possibly feel? Lying to yourself? How will it turn out when you wake up one day and look in the mirror and find you were getting your life's breath taking advantage of those who felt the most for you. But you'll never pick one, Oh, if only you could hear me laugh.

You'll never be willing to hand away all these persistent fans for one special girl. And all these fans will realize sometime that you're just a has-been. A once-was.

And you'll be alone.

You, the mirror, and your ego.

Thursday, February 11, 2010

This Game Called Love

I've learned over the past few weeks that "love" isn't about finding that person and BAM, being together.

The exciting thing with "love", is seeing if it's there or not. Seeing if it's possible you and this person could ever be together.

And just because it isn't a love-at-first-sight, instant Chemistry thing doesn't mean you won't end up together.

I find myself more excited for another day of loneliness in this case, knowing that this day of loneliness will bring me a step closer to knowing if perhaps he is that one, and that he feels it too.

Flirting to me has become fun, where before it was just a hinderence. I always assumed "love" would come in that epic, instant BAM way, and was bitterly dissapointed everytime it didn't. And why did those girls all end up with my guys and not me? Am I not pretty, spunky, lovable... But that's not it at all. I expected to instantly have what soul mates have by their two-year wedding aniversary. I expected to have it all, right then, to spill out every serious thought about me when these boys just wanted the kinship of friends first, not instand soul-mates.

But I've played a couple rounds in this game, and now I see that "love" is not won by spilling and giving your soul to someone who doesn't even know you (even after you spill and give your soul). It's about weaving your way up that gravel path, walking innocently by that person's side, taking hints and assumptions in stride, hoping one day you'll speak to him and BAM. The things you've built through this flirt-ship and friendship have meshed and it ends up you might actually work as a couple.

So then you move on to courtship.

For too long I've been wanting to skp straight to courtship, and I cannot (now) see why on earth that "shortcut" was appealing.

The best part of "love" isn't just the outcome. It's the game.

So I'll roll the dice tomorrow, and I'll bat my eyes tomorrow. And I'll hold idle conversation on the weather and his shoes. And one day, one day shortly, perhaps we'll come to find that this little game I love to play is aching to be mine.

"A little bit of laughs,/ a little bit of pain.../
It's all in the game of love."
-The Game of Love, Santana feat. Michelle Branch

Sunday, February 7, 2010

Time is of the Essence. And the "Essence" is distracted.

I hate the internet.

No, let me rephrase: I hate how the internet is like some invisible beast that I just don't understand, and once I'm positive I have it figured out, it smiles with it's pointy teeth and does something completely opposite.

I'm mostly feeling this way because I just attempted to download Voi Che Sapete by Mozart for a vocal lesson tomorrow, and I had to pay six bucks via debit. Not to bad, eh? Well I find it bad when my computer won't allow me to open said file, and I feel like I've just wasted six smackers...

But I'll try again tomorrow on a different computer, and should that not work, I guess I'll be down twelve bucks...

Now, moving on.

I also hate the internet because there's so much out there, but so little ways to access it. Perhaps it's just because I'm naive, but I feel if Google doesn't have it in the first three links, it doesn't exist. I'm not skilled enough to hack or find what I'm looking for (which is a pain when this History review is just too cumbersome...). I don't want to cheat or plagerize, don't get me wrong(You'd know if it was my work or not anyhow, what with my crappy spelling antics.). I just... Am lazy? Is that the proper term?

I have to laugh at myself. I get sooo... Distracted. For example I had ALL afternoon today to do a heafty mound of things, here I am, eight to nine hours later, and what's done? About 1/20th of that.

And here I am writing a blog....


My life is going down the toliet, just FYI. One day you'll look out that bus window and see a rather attractive young girl with dirt smuges on her face, selling Picniked photos she printed at the library for 10 cents a pop.

That'll be me.

Please be courteous and by some.

10 cents can get me at least 10 penny candy's from ACE Hardware.

If not a handful of used ciggarette butts.

(I won't be smoking them. I'll use them as kinder for my winter fire.)

"A-la-la-la-la la la la Life is wonderful...." -Life is Wonderful, Jason Mraz

Thursday, February 4, 2010

Wish You Were

I hate having the inclination to write, but nothing to say. I hate wanting to spill my over-flowing soul, but it's stuck upright. I hate having so much to say but no way to put it. I hate, I hate, I hate.

I find it interesting how I get so consumed with stress over the things left unfinished. I didn't do that assignment. Now I have it and this one, and this one, and this other one as well. And then I proceed to do none of them, though I can't fall asleep at night knowing the web I've woven.

I think it all goes back to my sad belief in fate. I believe things that are meant to work out, will work out, and things that wont just... Wont.

It's a hard thing to grasp sometimes, especially when you're so sure that fate was handing you a good hand.

"It seems to and then something happens and then it kinda crashes and burns. Well thatq one aRea . a lot of times though its awesome :)"

That's what he said to me. That piece of fate I was sure was gonna work out. And then it kind of... Oh, how'd he put it? Crashed and burned? Yes. That's it exactly.

And going back through those messages, trying to accurately quote him for you, I found myself growing more and more depressed, to the extent tears were forming in my eyes. I really did like him. I really was willing to give all I had for him. And I so wanted him to be that way back. And I was sure, blindly sure, he would.

So is it fate then, that we didn't turn out that way? Or am I some dumb little dreamer hoping to acknowledge the outer workings of some mystic force? Is this "fate" to which I cleave a mere figment of my imagination?

I guess... I guess all my life I've set up in my head the perfect person, and that boy just fit it so well I convinced myself that that was it. He was the one. And yes, he fit it, and filled it well, but he...

"Gone away/ are the golden days./ They're just a page/ in my diary./
So here I am/ a utopian citizen,/ I'm still convinced/ there's no such thing as idealism.../
Memories they're following me like a shadow now,/ and I'm dreamin'/ 'cuz I've already suffered the fever of disbelief.

But I've seen your act/ and I know all the facts;/
I'm still in love with who I wish you were./
It ain't hard to see/ who you are underneath;/
But I'm still in love with who I wish you were./
I wish you were here./

I was true/ as the sky is blue,/ but I couldn't soon/ say the same for you, no no./
So now I find/ denial in my eyes./ I'm mesmerized by the/ the picture that's in my mind./
Oh, so tell me when I'll finally see your shallow heart/ for what it is./
'Cuz I don't wanna keep believing in illusions. No, no, no.

'Cuz I've seen your act/ and I know all the facts;/
I'm still in love with who I wish you were./
It ain't hard to see/ who you are underneath;/
But I'm still in love with who I wish you were./
I wish you were here...

Sometimes/ I can't explain it/ and I'm so sorry that I can't
I'll try/ to concentrate/ on your true idenity.

'Cuz I've seen your act/ and I know all the facts;/
I'm still in love with who I wish you were./
It ain't hard to see/ who you are underneath;/
But I'm still in love with who I wish you were./

I've seen your act/ and I know all the facts;/
I'm still in love with who I wish you were./
And it ain't hard to see/ who you are underneath;/
But I'm still in love with who I wish you were./
I wish you were here./
I wish you were here./

I wish you were here."
-Wish You Were, Kate Voegele

So reading those text messages can hurt me, stinging as if I'd had him and lost him to the course of his life. But I know, I know, that this isn't the case.

Because through those messages and conversations he was the one. He really was.

But outside of my phone, and out in the light, who is he?

Not mine.

He's her's. And the part of me that isn't living in my phone, the part of me that doesn't cry over what he was, is okay. I'm content with the two of them. I really am. And he can say Hi to me and ask how I'm doing, that light in his eyes from back when he'd pretend sparkling for a moment, so the inner fibers of me believe his sincerity. And I can respond back accurately and peppily that "I'm great."

And he can ask again, as if he didn't hear me right.

But let me assure him, I'm great without him.

Because someday I'll find that someone I've daydreamed. Someday I'll find the one who is the one both in my phone and to my face. And Andrew? Andrew just wasn't him.

His loss.

Monday, February 1, 2010

Gunning Down Romance

Getting over him (and I appologize now for this being the re-occuring theme of this blog. I promise that wasn't the innitial intention) set me out of my world.

When I "loved" him, I was still that small imature girl I'd been through Junior High and sophmore year. I thought I'd surpassed that, and was level with him. Equal, sophisticated, ready for love. But I hadn't; we weren't.

And now, having fallen out of that emotion for him, it's like I fell the rest of the way out of that cacoon of safety I'd been living in. I hadn't realized it was there, but there it was, sheltering me. Hindering me.

And now I've got both feet on this new ground, and I'll admit it's weird. I'll admit it's really quite strange being so open inside, walking like I'm someone completely new; but oddly, oddly, I'm okay.

I'm better even.

And I didn't believe that could even be possilbe.

I hate looking back on that story I penned over the past few months, I hate remembering him and how childish I'd really been. Because believe me, I was an utter child. No wonder he didn't see me that way... And though I can't delete that past, I'm learning from it. And this time 'round, I'm not scribbling the rest of the story before it starts. I'm taking it slow.

And it's more fun this way.

Where with him I got this thrill of excitement from the knowledge that he liked me, that we were going to actually work (when in all reality we weren't), with this new face, I get this thrill from the prospect that something's there. I'm not believing his smiles mean he's compeletly into me, I'm taking his smiles for the possibility that he might be. And the thrill isn't from the knowledge I'm in his heart, the thrill comes from having to chase and see what's really there.

And I gotta say, this chasing game of love is much better than the 'sit back and wait' game I'd been trying to play just weeks ago.

"I'm gunnin' down romance..."
-Gunning Down Romance; Savage Garden