THE STORY OF HER LIFE...

The writer sits in waiting. Observing from outside the façade - having been suddenly thrust into the living and the breathing world, outwardly flowing from the words she brought to being. She created this!

The writer tries to say some things but framing thoughts in short bites during coffee breaks just doesn't work. She tries to say other things and they sound plain wrong. She is the one with the endless word supply but sometimes away from him she just stares at that blinking cursor and can't say what she wants to say... so she says something else that sends her a goofy gif back and inside she's wondering, "why oh why is this happening?"

But the romance! That's the writer's undoing see; the nonsensical words spoken back and forth every time they meet. Hell - half the stuff they talk about is stupid, silly. But its romantic stupid silly? Like a movie stupid silly? Like teenage talk... And she never had teenage talk. She never had stupid silly. So the writer's teenage heart is caught up, swept up, carried to a place it's never been before?

And there are questions here: How do people behave in this goofy place? What is right and what is wrong? What is acceptable and when is the line crossed and how does one not cross it? And she crossed it because she had no idea where the bloody thing was! The writer is now inside the goofiness; she wants to brand herself, to paint his picture at the nape of her neck in case one day he leans across and lifts her hair?

The writer knows she should have felt this in her teens, and really, had she not met him, she probably would have assumed that whatever those other things were, they had been real? She would have died believing she had loved? And some moments sitting here - she does - she wishes she still had this possibility of dying unknowing?

Because the writer now lives within the knowing see? She is seeing flowers and hearts thrust at her - at her! And she doesn't know what to do with them, she is this young thing who then doodles hearts and flowers in her diary, meanwhile listening to old love songs?

How to explain the awakening - in which the writer's life began the moment he arrived and sat opposite? The sudden realization of how dead she had been inside? How dead! How a writer can be alive and breathe and talk and smile and write so much so long and yet be so, so dead! Had she been happy? Maybe. Her version of happy, the one she lived content knowing she believed that version. This being her life - a decent life - oh but such a dead life, since she now sits outside knowing she's breached the false facade!

Now the writer cries, the writer wails! She is this emotional thing raising a fist and saying "not fair, not fair!" It is irrational, it defies logic and it has turned her mind inside out and upside down and a relentless throbbing manifests in her brain - and he is witnessing the results. And he is forced to ask the writer: "Are you always so overemotional?" and how does she tell him she hasn't ever been emotional, let alone "over" anything? And is he going to believe this as a truth?

Ah but there are moments, some moments when the writer watches him pause... and in that pause she is inside him, thinking his thoughts, dreaming his dreams, flying in his flights of fancy. She hears the forgotten young-boy voice speaking the longings of the innocent ones... And she wonders then: is her purpose to widen the confinement he paces within? Is her purpose to fill this emptiness remaining empty despite his also believing he too lives a full life?

And the writer wonders too... Can he ever sit by her and observing from without the twin facades understand her compulsion to flee? To hide and attempt unknowing the fact two errant teenage hearts found in their entanglement something called love? And can he stop her? Can he hold on to her until his eventual departure?

Because the story of her life will end the day he leaves...

Reviews

[Davidgeo]

I would not use the term 'the writer'. Too pretentious even if that is not your intention; using that identifier makes everything in this writing insist upon itself. It's not easy being receptive with this style, that identifier makes it harder when relied upon. I think so anyway....

[Elise Anton]

Open to suggestions... truth be told, I struggled with that word. I hate labels, yet at times I cannot escape them. I was writing. Performing the act of putting words down, and so I called it/her/me what it was? My son calls me pretentious often enough to ground me. Only because I use big words or obscure words, a habit I am trying to curb - but alas, I have them in my head and they come out. Of their own accord and with me not conscious of their arrival until I get smacked across the head by that statement? Again, very constructive thoughts and taken in.

[Davidgeo]

We are not here to use obscure words... but if that's how you paint, f**k, don't listen to anyone else. Have you read me? I'm entirely hypocritical... I'm one of the most pretentious a*s clowns around. Got a hypocrisy clown car and everything.

[Elise Anton]

Have I read you? Boy. Have you read me reading you? I bloody hate the defensive mechanism of explanations. It reeks of the precise reason why one shouldn't launch into them. Still learning friend, still learning.

[Davidgeo]

Reading me is bad for your health... just say no.

[Davidgeo]

but not to drugs... make sure you say yes to drugs

[Elise Anton]

Yes to drugs. Yes to drugs. Not saying no to anything. It's that kind of day.