Masks

What is is about you that is so damn breathtaking?

Your features are like carven marble. I swear it. Chiseled to perfection while your hair, in elegant disarray, falls in a relaxed tousle over the side of your face. You smile, you laugh; your teeth gleam whitely behind rosebud lips at every word you say. But your grey eyes are turned away. You’re speaking to someone else.

There was a time, not long ago, when I was captivated by you. We’d talk of inane things; you’d show me your battle scars and I’d laugh in all the right places as you told me the stories behind them. Sailing on your bike over a moving fire truck... pure teenage ignorance, perhaps, but I found nothing but humour in it because it was you.

Our one class together was a little slice of giddiness in my day. You made me feel special; when we talked I’d always have something witty to say. You were intelligent while maintaining your confidence and that set you apart from the others. You had an opinion. And your cologne smelled like heaven to me.

And now, as I lean nonchalantly back in my chair and study your figure, the appreciative giggles of the three catty girls leaning over your table are a dull blow to my heart. Bits and pieces of your conversation float over to me and linger numbly in my ears. Saturday night. You brag of your alcohol intake and the respected people you kept company with; subtly, of course, because you’re always suave like that. The girls toss their hair. I glance casually away.

When I look up again you’re watching me. You’re alone; your admirers have trouped off. Our eyes meet for a moment. The corner of my mouth tugs upwards in the slightest of smiles as you pointedly look back to your work.

I would like to think I wasn’t fooled. I’d like to think you’ve changed. But I would be lying to myself.

You've been fake all along.

For You

It's the acceptance and enjoyment of everything around you, the honest appreciation of everything that happens and how it occurs. It is the experience of feeling connected to everyone, affecting him or her as they affect you, believing in them as they believe in you, touching their spirit as they inspire you. A butterfly may cause a catastrophe halfway across the world, but the silence that falls over the dilapidated life, enveloping... ensnaring shock and transforming it into a demented state of bliss. With life comes death, but with death there is space made for new life. Nothing that is tangible is forever, but my happiness is ethereal. It'll extend and entangle those I encounter and inspire them to treat others with the same sort of joy and anticipation.

I wake up because I yearn to see the glow on my friend's faces. In a way it may make me weak to depend on their company for my happiness, but it doesn't take much. All I need is a body in the same room as me that is as interested in speaking with me as I am with them. Sparse intervals of alone time are integral, but elongated periods of lonesomeness increase lethargy, boredom and general decrepitude.

But when I am with them the planets are aligned, the stars are brighter than ever, and the moon is in pristine condition. The sun is warm and immaculate, the sky crisp and clear. I don't think they comprehend just how much I appreciate them, just how much I love them. If they did they'd probably be scared away, but the fact is that I care for them all individually. They've all shaped me into the person I am today and without them I'd be a desolate shell, winnowed away to a translucent layer of indigence and pining.

My life is beautiful and my future days much anticipated. I can't wait to wake up tomorrow because it'll be Friday, one step closer to those precious three nights I'll be able to sanction my time deliberately and exclusively for them, my special friends.

Down the Block

"Down the block, not across the street!" Hey, I learned something new today. :D I didn't know the way to kill yourself with a razor blade was to go vertically instead of horizontally.

http://www.somethingpositive.net/arch/nobabies.gif

Now... 'don't be getting any ideas, EmoKids.
PS: Vanessa, I miss your writing. Please post. :(

Wistful Thinking

Once upon a time I had a father who doted upon me. He scowled at my guy friends and trusted a scant few of them. Even then the only ones he trusted were the hardcore metrosexual boys that he was thoroughly convinced were gay. But I loved him for it. I knew he did it out of love. He was firmer than my mom about what time I had to be home at night. I was angry with him for it, but that anger ebbed away because I knew he did it for the sake of paternal concern.

I knew when to avoid the basement because I could hear the monotonous grunts exchanged between father and son as they slathered their throats with beer and shared gratified silence with a new episode of Monster Garage playing on the television. I viewed their relationship through sentimental eyes. I felt so privileged to be able to see and understand how they could communicate and understand each other through a series of grunts and not get angry at each other for not verbally conversing as women would in such a situation.

Sometimes I would come home in the morning from a sleepover at a friend's house to see a couple candles extinguished on the table. The dishwasher hadn't been cleaned yet and dishes from a supper for two people still sat in the sink, unclean. The house would be still, and I'd know as I climbed the stairs that my mom and dad were sleeping, deeply and contentedly in their bed after spending a romantic night together. I would smile, conceding them the decency of not pulling an immature face. I felt lucky all of the time because my parents, unlike more than half of the rest of the population, maintained a relationship where they still love each other profoundly.

I always wore my jean-jacket overtop of my tank tops before leaving the house in the summer, because my dad didn't like seeing me leave with cleavage when I was going to meet up with my guy friends. It was always too hot to keep the jean-jacket on, but I owed him that much to leave with it on.

When I turned nineteen he was more lenient towards me in regards to how late I stayed out and what I wore but he became stricter with my boyfriends. I was embarrassed when he potently stared across the table the days I brought them home for dinner. The curt way he questioned and replied set my face blazing with annoyance, but later I was glad to understand that he just looked out for me and didn't want pilfering scum for his daughter. He allowed me to date them, and even opened up enough to invite them over for a beer once in a while if I illustrated a particular liking. He understood that if I cherished my boyfriend that much he owed reason beyond doubt. Dad claimed that he'd at least give them a "chance".

It took him until I was twenty-four to treat me like an adult. That was the year his grandson was born. The grandson that I bore with a man whom I loved dearly enough to marry, and my dad, though suspicious of his intentions at first, had come to accept and care for him too.

Once upon a time I had a father that loved my brother and I enough that he would rather die than have an artificial, insipid relationship with his children. Once upon a time I had a father that couldn't conceive of having an impersonal affiliation with his kids. Once upon a time, my father wasn't the father I have today.

....

Song of the moment: Kanashimi wo Yasashisa Ni by little by little