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Wednesday, September 7
I had your hand in mine, once.I felt like writing about a girl, and it turned out to be about Laura again. Always, Laura. I am consistent. Romantics are consistent. One high ideal, one image, one feeling. We let one moment take over our dreams. Our restless, shadowless dreams.
Your fingers were small. Smaller than mine.
Your hair was long. It broke easily. It flowed.
I am singing Love Will Tear Us Apart. In the chorus, I whistle to myself. A German girl my roommate met on a bus is sitting across from me, singing softly to herself. Strange moments happen on the way to the next song, when piano notes enter my life again.
And again, I think of Laura. Alysa, and Jen, and Crystal, and now I see a field, in summer, with brutally green grass and kites slowly drifting upward on a wind.
Now, it's gone. Now this is the moment before I wake up. My panic. My dread. This is about listening to Teenage Wasteland on Christmas morning and being happy.
It's not about me losing myself in the words flickering across my notebook screen, hoping to know why the words appear below my fingers, and why I really don't want to share them with you.
This is about why I just lied, perfectionism and guilt. Sickness, too much sickness.
