I don’t know where to start. How to explain the unnameable emotion that’s held me tight since 6:20 this evening.
I wish I could go back and stop myself from saying it. I wish I hadn’t gotten intoxicated enough to be able to realise what I’d known for longer than I ever thought.
But if I did I’d lose every single pinpoint of perfection. For some short moments it was enough to say it.
All I wanted tonight was to take his hand in mine like I did last night. I don’t remember properly when it was. I remember individual points on the timeline. I remember everything I felt.
He didn’t believe me last night. Felt the need to ask me if I’d meant everything I said.
Of course I had.
All I want right now isn’t any of the crap I talked about last night. I wanted to hold his hand and hug him like I did for hours last night because he’s him. He’s safe. He’s him.
It all feels unreal to me now. That walk we took knowing we needed to talk. The words echo and tumble in my head.
I told someone how I felt about them for the first time to their face. And it all went to nothing.
I’m ashamed. He said I did nothing wrong, that I was one of his best friends. He said every lovely thing he normally does.
I never got my chance to say what I wanted to. I did what was best - what I always do. I acted normal.
I think i gave myself away, though that’s where this all started.
It derailed like some scene from a film. But it wasn’t like that. It was four shades of anguish and shame and a million things still left unsaid. And I think my parting words as the most difficult conversation I’ve had in a long long time ended were telling.
“You still smell good.”
I smiled, the expression not reaching my face properly. I think he laughed; who knows.
And then I walked away, waving in an impression of my insouciant public manner.
See, he told me last night I should be myself truly. Feelings and all. But I told him why I lie to myself.
And so I sat playing the piano like i had last night, searching the crowd for his face. And every time I thought about it I had to stop myself from breaking down.
He’s seen my soul. I don’t know if he realises it, but he saw it illuminated through a misty haze of drink and emotions.
Ironic that I will now be much more protective.
He remembers everything. All the things we still haven’t spoken about but he knows are true, they’re clawing at my skull. He knew me well enough to know what I’d hidden from him; why shouldnt he see that I’m in agony here?
I fucked up. I fucked up so badly. I fucked up and now look what I’m left with.
The ease between us is still there - it was almost too perfect.
I stood under the fireworks wishing to be next to him just for that, and I was crying as I laughed at the colourburst above my head. You can smile while your heart is breaking. I have to.
The words “not ready” have never been so potent.
Plenty of things are disintegrating all around me, but I still feel relatively fine. I don’t mean my usual ‘fine’, I mean something a little different.
It’s odd, knowing how many things are waiting inside your head to make you cry, but still having a heartful of mush reducing you to a sappy smile around ninety per cent of the time. I feel guilty for it. Guilty for feeling some sort of comfort. Typical.
Everything is shockingly real at the minute; and yet, utterly dreamlike. I want some of it to be a dream, resigning itself to the stained-glass shimmers of the annals of imagination, in the darkness where it belongs… And some of it I need so desperately to be real, if only to anchor myself to this earth by anything more than name and a list of arbitrary facts and figures that may be what I am but not who I am.
Odd things flash through my memory, sticking in their assumed places like stones thrown into a raging river of uncertainty. Memory’s a strange thing. Feeling’s too. I remember exactly the feeling of a hand on my waist for a brief second, but I don’t know how to name the emotion that went with it.
… Waking in the light, it could be any time. No new messages.
Probably time for bed, then.
You think I’m like water, inconsistent and forever flowing from one thing to the next, having no loyalty.
I’m only like water in that I can change state with the right catalyst. I’m hard when I need to be but the simplest thing can melt me - or undo me, sending my component parts flying to the very bounds of the space I’m in. I can’t help the fluidity of my mood: I fluctuate like some sort of volatile compound, forever with the propensity to react, destroying me and my surroundings. All I am that is certain is my failings. They stay fixed, fixed like the definition of whatever compound I am.
I really am just science, aren’t I?
Strange how massively things can change in a very short time.
I seem to think this a lot; however, for once, the changes are one that have, overall, made me feel good instead of bad. That’s important: not many sudden changes can override the bad so completely. But this sudden change has.
I could start over-analysing how I’ve forced myself to move on from someone who will never see me the way I do, and then discovered someone else… but I won’t. I’ve made mistake… but they’re not important. Noone is angry with me. Noone is ashamed of me.
I’m not ashamed of myself. And, more importantly, neither is he. I’ve never been so glad to lose a bet. Fifty pence, I think that’s easily worth losing in exchange for him remembering.
This time, I wanted to remember and be remembered. I never want to forget any of it. Any of it at all.
I didn’t believe him at first. But he stuck to it, his hands ever present on my shoulders. And I began to see. Began to feel.
Purple sweater. Two pairs of muddy, cold feet. Hot Fuss on the stereo. These aren’t stupid details to notice like usual, but important ones. I’m glad I’m always in the kitchen at parties with this turn of events, dancing by the drink table and the fridge wrapped up tightly in his arms. So very tightly, with his shy lips on my neck. I didn’t care that everyone could see his hands slowly moving across my back and shoulders. It was enough to have them there and to reach up on my tiptoes to wrap my arms around him. I don’t even care that neither of us could dance properly. None of that is important.
Morrissey was at least half right: shyness is nice. “I don’t know how to!”
His eyes found mine. For a second I though he wasn’t going to.
I had my first kiss with a boy I never knew liked me in the middle of an SW19 kitchen while Hot Fuss blared out.
Of course, someone had to ruin it for us. Even someone I trusted. My first experience of speaking against someone’s lips was shouting at someone.
Out in the cold, we got enough time to actually feel the kiss before we got interrupted. It’s a weird sensation, but it went right through me in the best possible way. If only it had lasted longer.
Mood successfully killed, we just spent the rest of the night side by side, him shifting in his chair beside me to be able to hold me properly. And that, as they say, is that.
I could go over the whys and wherefores of last night, documenting the horrible surges and plummets of emotion that seem to characterise moments of change for me. I could do my analytical trick.
But I won’t. I’m not going to try to break this down into little rational chunks of information with calculated uncertainties. I’m not second guessing. Tomorrow, if I have to take the walk of shame in the common room, I can do it with utter pride. I have done what was right for two people.
I am happy.
Here I am, once again in the library. But it’s not the high-vaulted room where I had my cognitive debate back in October. Everything is different.
Unusually for me, I’m completely silent. All around me there’s talk, a sussurration that whirrs around me like a wave gathering speed and volume. World away from the dead stillness of the blue ceilinged room fifty steps away. Maybe thirty. I have no idea. It doesn’t really matter anyway.
I’m the sole person here of my age, bookended by boys in red-crested blazers and the cohort that’ll be living off takeaways and cheap booze this time next year. I can assume that I will probably starve to death once I leave home. How intrepid of me.
I’m scared about tomorrow; in fact, I’m probably as scared as he was by me. I don’t like that facet of my personality: the dark, dirty underside of the preservable. All that is shameful contained and caged by the reason I can muster, all that I fear. I went to that party as Fear and left as Regret, black streaks migrating down my cheekbones.
Bones. All I am is bones. Bones of existence and sense and certainty, fleshed out and filled in by emotions. They stopper one gap and make six more gaping holes; the word made flesh. Which word am I?
Am I fascinating, a billion shimmering colours scintillating in the light of observation? A I logical, a steadfast column of reason holding up some edifice of control? Or am I nothing at all except the lack of definition, framed by twenty-seven million different mistakes, past and present? If time’s meaningless - what a nihilistic thing to say - if time’s meaningless, with the past unfolding right now in the heart of some distant start whose light will only touch my pale and abstracted face in its death throes, while now is the future in the centre of someone else’s world, am I just mistakes in the present, perpetually erring in the dark of the light?
Enlightenment is a dark thing when you’re the subject when you’re the subject of the reformation. I think if I were an artist this would be called my black period. But I’m not an artist. I’m nothing. I’m nothing but a set of personality quirks and a list of flaws.
Someone I know ducks into the blue-ceilinged room. Our eyes meet briefly - and he continues. We have no significance to one another here in the realm of books.
Amazing how well I’ve so far avoided writing what I really want to. I want to expurgate my soul of its demons, rid myself of the dybbuk on my hunched shoulder. But I fear the expurgation will show me things that I don’t want to see. I know they’re there. They’re always there.
Stuck in my own personal dark ages, I pray for and abhor the revolution that mst surely come.
I spent last night in my father’s bedroom from when he was my age.
That entire house is so bound up in memories that it’s probably life force holding it up. But it’s all changing. It’s wrong that I’m only becoming so comfortable to wander around now, now that it’s all ending.
I can’t bear that he’ll never see me go to university. I want to make him proud, I want to be the best firstborn grandchild anyone has ever had. I want him to live forever.
It’s hard seeing him this way. Feels unreal. Utterly unreal.
It’s cruel that time is running out. There’s so much that… that will never be. I hate it. I hate god if he exists for doing this to my grandfather, the one who I’ve always wanted to make proud.
I need time to deal with this. I play normal but I’ve been crying in the kitchen. It all seems like some horrific nightmare.
I don’t know what I’m feeling at the minute. It scares me. I don’t have a clue what’s going on inside my head. All I amount to right now is an overweight, useless teenage girl with a heap of fears and too many stupid dreams who continues to balls everything important up.
I’ve given up looking for meaning past the details now.
I don’t know what to think today. Not because of any particular trauma, but because of general nothingness. Bright points intersperse themselves infrequently along a dull timeline of grey.
I like grey, though. It’s comforting. It’s a mix of all the colours and none of them.
There I go again. Always analysing.
I wish people would stop telling me we’re a cute couple. Well, I don’t. It’s more that I wish they’d say it with any possibility of it existing.
To be honest, I wasn’t ready either. Never am.
I shouldn’t have gone in today. I feel like shit, my legs like achey cotton wool, my head sore. I’ve had all my female teachers but one comment on my countenance with concern. Pale and cold and tired. I can’t help it. Too many outside forces.
Sat in the car in an underground car park, I prop my feet up on the headrest of the passenger seat. I don’t know why I’ve come out, to be honest. I suppose getting dressed and making an effort to leave my bedroom is the first step to making myself go into school tomorrow.
See, if I was anyone else - anyone sane - I wouldn’t be bothering to analyse this. But as it is, I live my life in a constant stream of self-analysis. Ironic that I’m even doing it now, in an attempt to pin down whatever it is that makes up my personality. Interesting that as somewhat of a nihilist with an acceptance that there is no meaning to the world, I still look for meaning to everything I do. I’m an exercise in character traits. I think it’s all the literature interpretation.
If I wasn’t quite so over-analytical, this would be exactly what it is: a teenage girl, off sick from school, sitting in the car waiting for her parents to return with the shopping. In fact, it wouldn’t be anything at all.
I don’t know why I do it. I have to pin down everything into lists of facts and things that have a degree of uncertainty. I have to attempt to establish some sort of causality - because lord forbid that I never meant anything.
I suppose it could be that I’m looking for certainty because my own mind is a mess. It’s also probably that I’m self absorbed. There’s a point when all the analysis just becomes stupid details about things that don’t matter.
They’ve returned now. I have a banana.
I’m not even going to bother to analyse that.
Everything is changing.
The family dynamic is gone, smashed to pieces. The stalwart is fading. I’m now considered an adult, acting like I know how to cope with it all and only failing as I sit in a room that used to be something completely different with a hospital bed in the corner.
People are changing. The sociopath is now given to fluttering waves, and admitting his innermost feelings. The year is split in two. The heavy drinker nearly died.
And then there’s me.
Everything I try to type I erase; none of it’s good enough. Like me.
I’m caught in a whirlwind of emotion and blurred recollections and questioned dreams, well aware of the precipice upon which I once again stand. Things change so fast. I can only recall bits and pieces of last week up until Friday. Ironic.
But there are solid points that anchor me. And one of them is the friendship that I thought I’d ruined. I said a lot of things; and part of the reason for that was the safety I feel in his presence. I told him that. It’s unclear exactly where we stand…. But above all he’s my best friend there, and I’m not ever taking that for granted. I’m happy to let it slide for now. If there’s more to be said it’s up to him - because there’s other things, far away from Saturday, that we still haven’t broached. But if he’s fine with it, so am I. Call it being rational.
That said, I couldn’t tell you what’s going to happen next. Everything is different and sometimes I feel like I need to catch my breath, get the world and its workings to slow for a while. And yet I hate the stagnation. When will I ever make sense?
It’s all so unreal.
Oh, the interminable irony. Well and truly The Screwup Kid now. I think three women with one eye between them are having a right old laugh at me. It’s like living in a fictional world: I go from tragedy, to movie-esque scenes, to a bloody farce.
It would happen to someone so eternally bound up in their own layers of fiction and fact - because I see myself very clearly. I know very much who I am.
It’s the reality of living that life that I struggle with.