Seventy Fifth

I realized today
not that I hadn't already known it for a while
I could never love a writer.
I could never love another writer,
another frenzied mind and obsessive fanatic of words.

words.

In the end that's all they are, aren't they. They're not real. not toucheable. Not felt. They're good intentions, maybe. They're heartfelt, sometimes.
But they're not real. Not actually.
I think I...need..someone to show me something real.
Allow me to feel something, see something, hear something.
Not another text, another screen, another scripted promise.
Something big. And undeniable.

"Yes, dear, I see your words. They are lovely, just like you.
But whatever will I do with.. more words?"

Seventy Fourth

Yes, my friend.
Yes I do realize that it isn't fair.
And I know that perhaps, though I doubt any of us have any real say in the matter that is fate or connection or love, perhaps I do indeed deserve more. Perhaps all this karma I claim I need, and deserve, and have theoreotically saved up for this one moment, is settled elsewhere. Perhaps I am indeed wrong. It wouldn't be the first time, no. And really I have no right, no real heightened right to be righter, here, than I ever was. It is entirely possible that I am blinded, just as blind as you think it, just as silly, just as wide-eyed. But I don't think I am. And really that is all that ultimately matters, isn't it. Isn't it.
I know it's quite possibly wrong. I know I might deserve more. I know it might be less, at this moment, than anything I've wanted, anything you believe I deserve.
But trust, as I do. Trust, I suppose, in the impossible possibility that maybe miracles are not miracles, but events and the very karma you claim I deserve, just happen. It happens. It all happens, all of it, and everything.
Life happens.
Trust that it will happen to me, too.

Seventy Third

I realize you're not done loving her.
but I'm just starting to love you.

So no.
I can't let you go either.
Not quite yet.

Seventy Second

Some days
Not every day
But some days


I actually am sorry
I can't be this person you need me to be.

Seventy First

I'd rather lose myself in music
than lose myself in myself.
It's just less scary. you know?

Seventieth

And.

You know what?

Maybe I'm not special.
Maybe I am nothing special. Not interesting at all.
I am not gifted. I am not insightful, I am not particularly lovely in any one way.
And my past and connection with Harry Potter is typical, and childish. And really doesn't explain everything I think it does.
And High School doesn't define me as a person, and I don't think of it often. Because it wasn't hard. And I didn't face anything I didn't want or need to.
And I'm not a good writer. I'm average. I'm probably below. Nothing happens inside when I type, when I write or scribe, and no one has been touched, and no one kept my letters.
And my love life is normal, and understandable, for someone of my age and charm.

Maybe at the end of the day, there really is nothing special about me. Maybe if you look close enough, the way you really want to, you'll realize I'm not half as interesting as I appear to be. And maybe five years, or two, after my death, no one will remember me.

And maybe I'm okay with that.
because
really
I don't have to impress you.

Sixty Nine

I remember that night.
At one point they started ragging on my love life.

Why. are. you. single.
They started asking questions, making accusations
blaming me. telling me it was my fault.
Everything was my fault.

You're too picky. You're so arrogant. So vain.
So proud and high and mighty.
What (they asked) What are you waiting for?


I don't know (I said) Something big.
Something big. (I thought) I'm waiting for something real.

Sixty Eight

Dear You,

This letter has arrived to you from the past, in the year 2010.
I realize I'm not the best at sharing, or admitting things aloud.
Here are a couple of pointers to help you out.

I secretly like it when you put your hand on my knee.
(Preferably when no one's looking.)

I surprisingly don't mind being told what to do.
(Whether I'll actually do it is another story.)

It's nice when you lie on me. You aren't too heavy.
(You are never too heavy.
and I want to feel your heartbeat.)

If I've taken something too far, hit me.
(I probably said it to see you smile anyway. )

You may touch my bangs.

A word to the wise: Don't mention this letter.
I'd deny everything here.

Cheers,
Me.

Sixty Seven

You have to understand.
It's a place I don't want to revisit.
It's a person I don't need to be anymore.

Sixty Six

The difficult bit of being the writer, she muses, is the realization of the limits of our capabilities. Surely you can and will sit in front of your screen, against a window, lounge on a sofa or hobble against a wall. Scribble on notepads, rifle through notebooks, type hastily on Notepad 4.0. Surely you can do it all, effortlessly. You can imitate, you can hallucinate, create images out of thin air, capture raw emotion and transcribe it effortlessly.
Surely you can write and create and make something out of nothing at all.
But of course the difficult bit of being the writer, she muses again, is to remain aware that you do this for your reason, and not to fight the loneliness. Not to create because reality has failed. Not to manifest because if you wouldn't, there would be nothing at all.

The difficult bit is to remain in one world. One life.

Sixty Five

Sometimes, though, it get aggravating that it's never worked out.

I mean how hard is it really.
I like you. You like me.
We try it out.
I don't think it's that hard. I really don't. I don't understand, sometimes, why it is. for me. Why people get bogged down in all the 'what ifs' and 'buts'. Why is it that the ones I like can always think of a handful of reasons why I'm not worth giving a shot.

I mean
Is this it?
Am I not supposed to have what I want?
Is that it, universe?
Is this your sick plan to make me a great writer?

everything hurts. all the time.
she is lonely because she should be.
Unable to distinguish love and loss.

Is this it? Is this what I’m meant for?
Meant to be alone? Is this all one big plan?
Is this your trade?

I don't want it.

DO YOU HEAR ME UNIVERSE

IT'S NOT A FAIR TRADE.

I DON'T WANT IT.

Sixty Four

Books and cleverness. There are more important things.
Friendship. And Bravery.

It is not our abilities that make us who we are.
It is our choices.

Harry Potter.
Harry Potter was, and is, about acknowledging the good and bad in you.
What you want - What you need.
Differenciating the difference.
And making the right decision.

The right decision.

I always try to make the right decision.
I don't have much at the end of the night.
But I have the right decision.

The right decision.

It's rarely what'll make you happy.
very rarely.
But that is what a hero can do, what we're too scared to do; be selfless and give up our dreams, our wants, our needs.
Even if we deserve it more.

even if we want it more.

Sixty Three

If I were to ever commit suicide in a metro, it'd be here. Vendome.
I have spent hours upon hours here, feeling this same breeze, gazing into the tracks, gazing across at red benches.
I have lied to myself here. I have cried. I have stifled feelings. I have forced laughs, restrained myself from jumping, restrained from pushing others. I have gone numb. I have spoken aloud to myself. I have written over fourty letters; just sitting.
I have waited for nobody.
I have lost myself between 3:30 arrivals. I have listened to songs from the same iPod since grade eight. Some encouraging, some counter-productive in retrospect.
Years later, though I no longer require this station's buses for school, life brings me back. Somehow, life brings me back to this station. And years later, I am still a mess.
I still do not know who I am.
What I am capable of.

I stare at the red benches I have seen repainted at least fifty times. I listen to my iPod. I let the trains pass. I do not jump. I try to stop thinking.

Sixty Two

I don't hate you.
It'd be easier - it'd all be easier - if I did. But I don't.
I envy you.

Your vulnerability. Your honesty.
The way you throw caution into the wind
Living one life and today like it's the last.
The way you take what you want.

It doesn't quite seem fair that what I want doesn't matter most of the time.

Sixty One

The hardest part is not to lose oneself.

In the swirls of emotions and witty references, it's easy to get caught up, swept up in the applause and approval, the compliments of apparent realism and extraordinary universal relatability of each and every selected word carefully placed in structures, sentences.

It is so easy to get lost.

One slip between fiction and nonfiction.
and if you're good, if you're that good, if you're too good, no one will notice.
Not even you.

It is so easy to lose yourself in a world made entirely of your creation, a world where you can change everything and anything you want. Everyone says what they should. And everyone feels what you want them to feel.

Sixty

With great power comes bad aim.
And there's no point to it. To any of it. What point can there be when I can't control it?
It's nice to have, maybe, and useful for selfish motives that admittedly occasionally arise. But calisse, man. What is the point to it?
What is the point of being so charming when it works on everyone but the ones that matter.

Fifty Nine

urgh christ shut up.

Just shut up sometimes, man.
Shut up about your family, and your faith, and your friends, and your blogging, and writing, and high school and university and art and history and politics.
Shut up with the mystery and the dramatic, half-veiled truths.
Shut up with the uppity I write better than you breathe.

And stop not talking and yet talking.
Talk or don't.
no wait.
no. stop.
just

Just shut up sometimes, man.

Fifty Eight

Sometimes I can't help but carry on the burden.


Because it's just so heavy sometimes. Life is just so unfairly hard on them sometimes. And I can't help but allow them to unload. It's what I'm here for anyway. It's what friends are for. I am here for you, I will be here tomorrow. Let me in. I will carry you when you are too weak to stand.

Sometimes it's guilt. Not all the time. But admittedly sometimes.
Because it's just so huge that the blame can't be placed on their shoulders. And I can't help but feel...kind of responsible. I should have seen it coming. I did see it coming, and I didn't try to prevent it.
It's selfish. I know.

Fifty Seven

Hi.
I haven't always been like this.

I used to be really positive. And I used to believe in society.
I used to have a lot of faith in humanity.
And I used to be...fearless. I used to be much less judgemental.

I used to have less respect for myself, though.

I used to be satisfied with what I had.
Used to be a lot less lonely. Or maybe just less aware of my loneliness.
I used to dance more and write less.
I used to believe in the power of love.
I used to let grudges go. I used to forgive and forget.
I used to not blame myself for everything.

Anyway.
just wanted to say I haven't always been like this.

Fifty Six

I think you need to start counting your blessings.
I'm a really good kid.

I don't wear rainbow buttons or wave a rainbow flag.
I don't march in the parade shouting about how I'm here.
I don't hit on girls in front of you.
I don't stay up all night doing who knows what with who knows who.
I don't continue when I see you're growing uncomfortable.


I don't tell grandma. and I want to.

I'm a REALLY GOOD KID.
You have NO IDEA what else is out there.

So shut up and read the stupid book.

Fifty Five

I don't really know what kind of girl I am.
Sometimes I feel exactly like who you're singing. I feel her sorrow and her strength. Her pain and her conviction. I am trapped as she is, and free when you belt out the chorus. The lyrics are a self-portrait, a self-explaining scroll.
And sometimes I just want to sing. Scrap all double entendres, and just let it go. stop taking things so seriously, stop over-analyzing (for god's sake stop over-analyzing) and just let go.

Fifty Four

You have ruined me.
People ruin each other everyday, yes, that's true. And no, you didn't harm my family. You didn't attack my home, my banking account. You steered clear of belittling me when everyone else did, even though you clearly had the chance to join in the taunting.
But you have ruined me.
I knew it when it happened. Nothing would ever really be the same again.
Drama Queen
It's said that one thing today will blow up and end tomorrow. But that's not true. Everything's interlinked. Every moment that passes by is an important one you can't actually get back again. And everything you say, and do, and have done, affects your day, and your person. Who you are. Who you will be.

You have ruined me.
As much and as hard as I have tried to fight it, the butterfly effect of your actions and nonactions have affected me far too profoundly for me. and you have ruined me.

Fifty Three

It does indeed worry me that I'm mostly looking for a savior
not so much a ... lover?

Maybe I should get around to saving myself before carrying someone else's weight on my shoulders.

Fifty Two

Life would be so much easier
for one thing
if we were in a war.

If tomorrow was the day you'd slip off the face of the earth. Run in front of a killing spell and die for the one you love.

there. now you know. now everyone knows.

And everyone appreciated life. Everyone could see life as a fragile, temporary blessing that shouldn't be wasted with headaches and heartaches and fighting and childish disagreements. If everyone could just chip in, and be appreciated for doing whatever it is they're doing solely for the fact that hey, at least we're all trying. And make it stop being about how you play the game, but the fact that you got up from the benches at all.

Fifty One

I find it amusing that the villains in disney movies
are the ones that don't believe in love.

Fifty

But every now and then, I think it's nice to just fit in.
It...must be nice to fit in.

Sometimes I just want to fit in.
Not walk into a room and have a crowd.
Not feel a polite need to say hello to everyone.
Scrap it all.
Scrap the name.
Scrap my history.
Scrap all the anger and disapproval.
Scrap all the pompousness.

Just fit in.
The way everyone else does.

Fourty-Nine

A tiny piece of me acknowledges
I write fanfiction for an ego boost.


Sometimes it's just nice knowing al ot of people subscribe to your writing, get excited when you update, and leave well-thought out comments.

Fourty-Eight

I Hate.

HATE.
HATE.
HATE HATE HATE

having to defend my love life to you.

IT'S NONE OF YOUR BUSINESS.

Fourty Seven

You can bounce back.
Everyone can bounce back. And from anything.
It depends on how badly you want it
and who you have by your side.

oooh! OOooh! pick me! Pick me!


I would never betray you.

Fourty-Six

It is a mixture of both exhaustion and horror that floods into me when I realize that yes, the closest to falling in love I've probably ever felt is for a fictional character.
I don't really know what to do with myself at that point.
But I think I like the idea of Emily Fitch.
I've fallen in love with the idea of falling in love.
Not so much the idea of love.
But the notion of falling in it.

And then I realize
I don't think I've ever not been in love with that notion.

I also think maybe this is just something I tell myself
in order to soothe the pain of the realization
that I have feelings for a fictional character.

Fourty-Five

Music is the only thing that calms me down sometimes.

I had one moment in my life about a year ago when even it couldn't keep me under control.
and that was scary.

Fourty-Four

If I had superpowers, I'd rule the world.
I wish I could say I'd use the powers for good.
But something tells me I'd just get way too frustrated with the world.

I already am.

I'm always frustrated with the world.
No one's ever good enough. No one's ever smart enough.
I'm always looking down on people.

So if I had superpowers it'd probably just heighten this
and I'd use 'em to rule the world.

Fourty-Three

Sometimes when I look back on the times I've said 'No Thank You'
I think I might have missed out on something special.

I don't know if it's because maybe it really could have been and me, being who I am, just assumed I saw everything there was to see in them (which is admittedly so hypocritical), or if it's just the loneliness seeping in at night.
I hope it's the latter.
It's probably a bit of both.

Fourty-Two

I owe my writing career, as short as it is, to Harry Potter.
I didn't write at all when I was a kid.
I just read.
like a worm.

First I went through a very - very - short lived fantasy genre phase. Then mystery. Then time-travel. Not sci-fi. Time travel.

in retrospect I still haven't gotten out of it

And then a bit later, romance.
It was probably between time travel and romance where the option of fantasy popped up and I never gave a second thought to it. No. No. Fantasy was odd, and centuries away. I could deal with sci-fi, maybe. But certainly not fantasy.
By the time I'd gotten into Harry Potter, the internet was coming into fruition. I was probably thirteen when I was looking up Harry Potter pictures online. (Just for the sake of it. Because oh my god the internet and these images were free. Ridiculous notion.) And I fell upon a manip of someone's fanfiction. Holy hell.

Which then brought me to fanfiction.net, then harrypotterfanfiction.com, then portkey.org, then finally livejournal. Please note these are listed in order of ascending quality. Although portkey had some really great stuff.
Anyway. I don't label myself as fanfiction writer often, but when I do, it's always with pride. Fanfiction got me started. It made me realize Hey. I can write? It's not just...books that appear out of nowhere and into the library? Everyday people like me can just...write?

hells yeah son. I'll drink to that.

Fourty-One

Dear Advisor,

You told me something, about five years ago, and I took it straight to heart. I shouldn't have. I shouldn't have shut off my brain, like that. I don't know what I was thinking. Clearly I wasn't.

I should have thought for myself, I should have taken your words in with a grain of salt. But I was a kid. I was a kid and I came to you because you were supposed to be trust-worthy and learned.

I put my faith in you.

And even though I understand now, older, what you meant to say then, you shouldn't have said it. I understand what you were trying to get at, what you were trying to get me to see in myself, and the world, but that was the wrong way to put it, and you shouldn't have said it. It was unprofessional, it was wrong, and it certainly didn't help me. At all.

I'm sorry. I really am. I know someone coming back into your office, pointing at you and saying, "Hey. You. You fucked my head up when I was a kid" isn't what you wanted this morning when you got out of bed. But I think about it, all the time, and I think it's about time you started, too.

Regards,
Me.

Fourty

I have a huge ego.
It is enormous.
I try very hard - very hard - to keep it in check.
It's just this need, and this inherent insistence that I am better than everyone else. It's something inside that needs to vocalize, through me, that I know more and understand more, and see more, than everyone else.

I've learned to make a mockery of it.
Acknowledge that the pompousness is there,
and ridicule it with sarcasm.

It's gotten much, much better since high school.
But it's still very, very big.

I think of it as a piece of me, fighting me, trying to make me something - someone - that I don't want to be (anymore).

Thirty Nine

I am the sort of person
who thinks immediately of her grandmother
when she sees a stupid, stupid teenager running around
in the metro.

Because that guy pushed her and she fell down the stairs and he didn't have the courtesy to stick around to wait for the ambulance because clearly his agenda was more important and no, it's not okay. And it's never going to be okay. Because she's never going to be the same again and he's stolen the last mobile years of her life and I can't forgive him for that. I can't forgive any of them for that.

Thirty Eighth

I'm the kind of person who acts quite odd after a clean, just brushed feeling.
I like biting at the air, hearing a satisfying click with each snap, running my tongue along the smooth, straight teeth I've been fortunate enough to have.
I like to imagine I'm a vampire.
And then I actually get an urge
to go out
and bite someone.