13: For lack of a title (probably written 20 August 2015)
You only release, here in writing, writing out words, stringing certain words together in a sentence to make a scene, which then makes a story. How jumbled your thoughts are, how they flit from one thing to another without having finished itself, this one endless loop of repeated content. You’ll let him go, as you should have done at the very beginning, a long time ago, this wasn’t worth the time, but was he worth it? It seems like months ago that you were talking so much, and now you can go days…countless days pass where neither of you hear a word from the other. Of course, you’d be the one thinking all the thoughts about what he’s doing, is he even thinking about you even in passing thought (probably no). He’s probably not the one for you either and the more practical side of you is fine with that but what about that side of you, your heart of hearts as you so very much like to call it? The thoughts in your head are still jumbled, so it is therefore imperative that the words and pictures streaming through your mind e brought to life in the pages of the book that holds your feelings, your memories, your novel ideas…
You keep thinking about the prefect induction speeches. It made you realise how much you’ve grown as a person, grown literally, metaphorically, literally. The hall is still the same as it was three years ago, but when you saw the hall then you were in perpetual awe, wonderment, dumbfounded. Now the lighting of your lenses has changed and the hall is as desolate as you can remember it, things that haven’t changed at all…but the way you perceive things, has dramatically changed. Of course, it only seemed like yesterday that you were clutching a paintbrush in an ugly clammy hand, oblivious to the insults thrown at you, oblivious to the vast expanse of universe in which you were merely less than a dust mote. It only seems like yesterday that boys were different creatures of humankind and lacked manners, intelligence, wit. IT only seems like yesterday that you made the decision to write miniscule letters in the hopes of neatening your own handwriting technique, style, manner. Fast-forward a few years and boom, you’re in high school.
The first year is always hard or easy depending on who you are. You remember the pain and you remember the happy days. You didn’t really have a squad. Writing every day was not part of your world then. Body image issues, rising to the top in your academic life, making the most friends, living the school life. And boys were the worst. Your heart continually broken by that one…You were unsure of his mixed, very mixed signals. Why does it have to be this way> Fast-forward to the present and now you’re thinking, the present doesn’t really last long. No, when you think about it, whatever you’re doing happened a fraction of a second ago, so there really is a past and future only, no real present. But you think about the present, the now anyway. You’re sitting in your bedroom, academic paperwork stacked and strewn across your desk, the only sign of a failed spot clean. Your journal over these papers, because you have lost all motivation to cross off unrealistic tasks on your to-do list, and channelled all this new motivation into writing. Approaching midnight, your fingers burn with cold. Your left pocket exuding warmth because your phone is sitting there. Your abdominal muscles sore from the last couple of days training. You’re feeling ugly as usual, not getting the second glances from the boys who see you (now that I think of it why did I even want them what the fuck does this come with being sixteen??). Sixteen and so entrenched in academic life, boys, hobbies, tutoring. Sixteen and feeling nostalgic already as all of this will end in 2017…the diary keeping, the boys, basketball. These are integral parts of your day (not the boys, obviously. God what are you on). Somebody in 2017 will come back, read this, and relive a life they lived years ago, and even though not all memories are created equal, the life that is lived is the only one that truly matters (okay this doesn’t make sense but it makes sense to me??). Sixteen and already thinking so far ahead into the future. Slow down…before the sun comes up and the magic dies.
P.S. This was the weirdest thing I’ve ever written. But I probably have written worse.