It's ironic.
That a Fiction Major wannabe cannot write a single sentence, cannot fragment a solitary paragraph, or evolve a strong subject of ideas. I used to believe I had a talent. I like rhythm. This entry has none, because I've lost it. Like my god damn keys, or something? You know, it's not really "writer's block." I've thought it could be. But that's when you're almost done, and you stumble into a fire engine red brick wall. My problem? I can't even start. I have no ambition, no yearning, no desire. Anymore to begin.
The last time this happened, my best friend left me. Sounds like no big deal. She was my breathe, and she swept away. I remember her words, and I feel my chest collapse within my body. My eyes begin to burn, but water falls. My stomach drops out for lunch. I don't usually get it back until the following Tuesday's evening. Now imagine---that's just from the recall. It was harder when she'd said them.
I am retentive. Look it up and my name is the definition. Because I hold onto that best friend like I'm dangling over the Pompeii Volcano in a different lifetime. Every silence I awkwardly elapse into, is a thought about her. Every breathe I quickly recede back into my lungs is a sharp reminder; it's her. So with her memory constantly invading my mind, surrounding my thoughts, and effecting my bodily vital systems, it's no surprise I would relate everyday occurrences to her, right?
People talk. They always will. They will call you out in front of groups of your friends. And you'll deny everything, or at least, you did. I'd hope that with me, you couldn't be ashamed. But then you grab his hand like your positive energy is bound to it, and all I can think of is that smile you had over me when we were in my sheets. At my house, in my bed. You say you don't really remember it. Then we did it sober...
But the outcome is still the same. No change in our relationship. Not sure if I'm even ready, I'm waiting for her, remember? You always seem to keep that in your mind, how could you let my feelings for you slip by? Maybe it's lust, maybe it's real. Either way, it's practically over before it's started. It's beautiful.
You're going to miss this. And if she'd just ask, I'd make the decision to stay in College Park. For however long it takes, as long as there's a chance. I have plans for my old best friend and I; for her to love me. I don't think it would take too much. Your mind always makes it harder. But if I don't think about it, I can't imagine my preference, and be disappointed.
Back when I was still an automated answering machine, I'd always say 'hello.' When that got old, I tried to say goodbye. But I remember how my playback button broke, I found myself abandoned soon. Just another technological device in need of repair. My numbers got dusty... nobody ever touched me. Eventually, even my smooth black finish faded. My batteries melted within their container. I was junk and no one liked me. I was replaced... by a shiny new answering machine. Then my days were over, my wires and configurations unplugged themselves. I found myself in the trash. From the dump, came a new perspective. 'Cause once you've hit the bottom of the bag, there's no way but out. I'm happy now.
I'll do it the old indian way; CP will be in frame. Blindly, I'll pay to have the ink nailed, ironically. It's the summer of tattoos. We've all got them. My friends make me feel bad ass. I have two.
I remember being twelve, not so long ago. Mom explained why grandpa has "SW" on his arm. I understood, and I swore to have it imprinted on me at eighteen. At seventeen, I learned that he blew his brains out. but mom swears evil mary did it.
I've still got my mind stuck on a year ago, and every time I blink, I watch the most beautiful scenes from you and me. I want so bad to take care of this mess. Sweetheart, if you'd say the word, I'd stay. Or I'd set you up in the city near me. Or we could run away together. But I can't do it alone, because I believe you need to be saved as well.
