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little bit crazy, little bit blind
People are taking days off school, I'd like to more than anything but I can't miss class or the knot of panic and dread in my stomach will get worse. I waver between feeling pathetically self-righteous that I do my work as soon as possible and so don't have to take days off and wondering why people who leave all their maths homework til the last minute do better than me on tests.
Sometimes I don't know why I bother trying so hard. It doesn't seem to afford me any pleasure or any sort of advantage.
I shouldn't be allowed to write when I'm in a mood like this, but I do anyway, because I don't have anything else that I can do. Can't cry, can't talk to anyone, can't punch things because it'll wake the family. Can't write poetry, can't write music, can't bring anything out but randomised thought that isn't even real.
Life is full of dangers and uncertainties. It’s the first lesson, a life lesson, hah. But for all its importance and inherent truth, many people choose not to learn it. Now these people, the willingly blind, they can go one of two ways. They can revel in their naivety, choose to believe the best and never look for the beast and the devil that hides in every man’s breast. They won’t develop the hard-eyed cynicism of the realist, and sooner or later the world will chew them up and spit them out because they didn’t think to look over their shoulder and guard against the beast. Sad, but that’s how it is. The others, though – they start off the same, but they grow. They have to have something different, a strength of purpose and personality that drives them and the world that comes into contact with them. They choose not to see the uncertainty and disbelieve the danger. And such is their smile and their bright steely aura that the danger starts to disbelieve in itself.
Watch out for these ones, because their innocence can’t be stolen and your cynicism can.
~
Ellie Jenkins thought she was sick, thought she might be dying. The birds on her ceiling were moving in front of her eyes, blurring sneakily and then jumping back into focus. She was hot, her pillowcase was itching the back of her neck and the itch was creeping down her spine and making her shiver. She’d had one of those almost-dreams where you’re just waking up but your body doesn’t know it yet, and so it had jerked embarrassingly even as she opened her eyes, trying to duck a treebranch that wasn’t there.
Ellie wasn’t quite sure what it felt like to be dying, and she wondered a bit worriedly how you were supposed to be able to tell. Her grandma had died, but she’d looked quite peaceful and for all the world like she was having a good dream, perhaps involving the peach trees in the orchard and the little piano that was missing an F key but still sounded lovely. And her mother claimed to be dying all the time, sinking into an armchair and resting her arm briefly across her eyes before reaching for her pills and asking Ellie to fetch her a glass of milk. Said she couldn’t take them with water, the milk made them go down easier. But she never did die – maybe it was the pills, Ellie thought.
The sun went behind a cloud and the room darkened, but Ellie seemed to get even warmer. She wondered if she should go and get some of her mum’s pills – they were meant to be kept out of reach, she was pretty sure, but her mum never remembered. She knew for a fact that there was a little jar of them in the bathroom at the moment, right next to the cold tap. But if she was dying, maybe it would just kill her faster if she got out of bed and walked down the corridor to get them.
Ellie decided to play it safe, and she blinked at the sluggishly flying birds for a few more moments before she drifted off to sleep.
~
Sometimes it takes all the effort a person has just to hold it together, just to go through life without letting their legs buckle under them and the screams come flooding out. Sometimes the reason they’re a bit terse is because it’s taking all their self-control just to keep their face composed, and if they think too much about what they’re saying then the whole thing will fall apart.
Some people have a gift for this, and some have a gift for spotting it in others. Perhaps they can see the looming tears and exhausted sobs that lie within an aura, held at bay by a brittle wall of forced forgetfulness and a particular way of walking, head held erect and not even the smallest hint of collapse in the set of one’s shoulders, because to let one thing droop is to let everything slowly melt and fall and spread until there is nothing left but a smudge of messy human weakness on the floor.
Keep at it long enough and you’ll become amber, hard and fast, pretty to look at and smooth to the touch. Difficult to break. The thing about amber is that it dries from the outside in, and far more slowly than you might think. Even when the outside is glossy and hard, the inside is a molten mass of inelegant goo, slowly expiring from lack of oxygen and the harsh surrounds of its outer limits. Pretend to the world long enough, keep it all at bay, and you’ll be hard, you’ll be just as untouchable as you’d like. But there’ll always be a core, and if someone hits you with enough force it just might come pouring out.
~
There was a song that Ellie always loved, though she never heard it often (and the memory is from an oh-so-young age, it’s fuzzy, bear with me…) because her grandmother only played it on special occasions. It was a very old song, her grandmother said, so if it was played too often they would wear it thin, and it was already fragile. Ellie imagined the song as a paper bird, laid between cotton wool in a cardboard box like her grandmother’s other precious things. Strings of pearls too yellow to be lovely, but gorgeous to stroke and whisper over and later dream of princesses. Old photographs from when they hadn’t invented colour yet, when the world was only a strange shade of red and brown and everyone looked patient and upright. One medal, green and orange stripes on its ribbon, faded-rubbed writing around the rim.
The song, though… it must have been its age that made it so lovely. Ellie often tried to hum it to herself, at night, but the melody would slip away like sand from her fingers. Apparently it could only be enjoyed while it was heard, and only heard every once in a while. Rarity, her grandmother said, lifting Ellie up so that she could see the music, black army of notes marching crazily across a creamy page, always denoted value. Ellie looked up ‘denoted’ in the dictionary, solemnly balancing a thick volume across unsteady knees, but it didn’t help much.
So now she lies in bed, a few years on but not too many, and wonders who will play the very old song, and in the kitchen her mother reaches absently for a pill bottle that hardens her shell a little more every day.
~
I hate myself like this.
Sometimes I don't know why I bother trying so hard. It doesn't seem to afford me any pleasure or any sort of advantage.
I shouldn't be allowed to write when I'm in a mood like this, but I do anyway, because I don't have anything else that I can do. Can't cry, can't talk to anyone, can't punch things because it'll wake the family. Can't write poetry, can't write music, can't bring anything out but randomised thought that isn't even real.
Life is full of dangers and uncertainties. It’s the first lesson, a life lesson, hah. But for all its importance and inherent truth, many people choose not to learn it. Now these people, the willingly blind, they can go one of two ways. They can revel in their naivety, choose to believe the best and never look for the beast and the devil that hides in every man’s breast. They won’t develop the hard-eyed cynicism of the realist, and sooner or later the world will chew them up and spit them out because they didn’t think to look over their shoulder and guard against the beast. Sad, but that’s how it is. The others, though – they start off the same, but they grow. They have to have something different, a strength of purpose and personality that drives them and the world that comes into contact with them. They choose not to see the uncertainty and disbelieve the danger. And such is their smile and their bright steely aura that the danger starts to disbelieve in itself.
Watch out for these ones, because their innocence can’t be stolen and your cynicism can.
~
Ellie Jenkins thought she was sick, thought she might be dying. The birds on her ceiling were moving in front of her eyes, blurring sneakily and then jumping back into focus. She was hot, her pillowcase was itching the back of her neck and the itch was creeping down her spine and making her shiver. She’d had one of those almost-dreams where you’re just waking up but your body doesn’t know it yet, and so it had jerked embarrassingly even as she opened her eyes, trying to duck a treebranch that wasn’t there.
Ellie wasn’t quite sure what it felt like to be dying, and she wondered a bit worriedly how you were supposed to be able to tell. Her grandma had died, but she’d looked quite peaceful and for all the world like she was having a good dream, perhaps involving the peach trees in the orchard and the little piano that was missing an F key but still sounded lovely. And her mother claimed to be dying all the time, sinking into an armchair and resting her arm briefly across her eyes before reaching for her pills and asking Ellie to fetch her a glass of milk. Said she couldn’t take them with water, the milk made them go down easier. But she never did die – maybe it was the pills, Ellie thought.
The sun went behind a cloud and the room darkened, but Ellie seemed to get even warmer. She wondered if she should go and get some of her mum’s pills – they were meant to be kept out of reach, she was pretty sure, but her mum never remembered. She knew for a fact that there was a little jar of them in the bathroom at the moment, right next to the cold tap. But if she was dying, maybe it would just kill her faster if she got out of bed and walked down the corridor to get them.
Ellie decided to play it safe, and she blinked at the sluggishly flying birds for a few more moments before she drifted off to sleep.
~
Sometimes it takes all the effort a person has just to hold it together, just to go through life without letting their legs buckle under them and the screams come flooding out. Sometimes the reason they’re a bit terse is because it’s taking all their self-control just to keep their face composed, and if they think too much about what they’re saying then the whole thing will fall apart.
Some people have a gift for this, and some have a gift for spotting it in others. Perhaps they can see the looming tears and exhausted sobs that lie within an aura, held at bay by a brittle wall of forced forgetfulness and a particular way of walking, head held erect and not even the smallest hint of collapse in the set of one’s shoulders, because to let one thing droop is to let everything slowly melt and fall and spread until there is nothing left but a smudge of messy human weakness on the floor.
Keep at it long enough and you’ll become amber, hard and fast, pretty to look at and smooth to the touch. Difficult to break. The thing about amber is that it dries from the outside in, and far more slowly than you might think. Even when the outside is glossy and hard, the inside is a molten mass of inelegant goo, slowly expiring from lack of oxygen and the harsh surrounds of its outer limits. Pretend to the world long enough, keep it all at bay, and you’ll be hard, you’ll be just as untouchable as you’d like. But there’ll always be a core, and if someone hits you with enough force it just might come pouring out.
~
There was a song that Ellie always loved, though she never heard it often (and the memory is from an oh-so-young age, it’s fuzzy, bear with me…) because her grandmother only played it on special occasions. It was a very old song, her grandmother said, so if it was played too often they would wear it thin, and it was already fragile. Ellie imagined the song as a paper bird, laid between cotton wool in a cardboard box like her grandmother’s other precious things. Strings of pearls too yellow to be lovely, but gorgeous to stroke and whisper over and later dream of princesses. Old photographs from when they hadn’t invented colour yet, when the world was only a strange shade of red and brown and everyone looked patient and upright. One medal, green and orange stripes on its ribbon, faded-rubbed writing around the rim.
The song, though… it must have been its age that made it so lovely. Ellie often tried to hum it to herself, at night, but the melody would slip away like sand from her fingers. Apparently it could only be enjoyed while it was heard, and only heard every once in a while. Rarity, her grandmother said, lifting Ellie up so that she could see the music, black army of notes marching crazily across a creamy page, always denoted value. Ellie looked up ‘denoted’ in the dictionary, solemnly balancing a thick volume across unsteady knees, but it didn’t help much.
So now she lies in bed, a few years on but not too many, and wonders who will play the very old song, and in the kitchen her mother reaches absently for a pill bottle that hardens her shell a little more every day.
~
I hate myself like this.
no subject
I confess to being one of those people who never worked, always skived off, and still did well, but I envy the discipline you possess. I've never been able to achieve it, and I've found more and more in my life that it's an incredibly desirable thing. I wish now that someone had forced me to train myself to concentrate, and focus, and put aside impulses in favor of ultimate goals. So I think you're lucky, although you may not recognize it now.
Although I do wish you'd come back... : )
no subject
no subject
*reminds self of a Tom Waits song*
*ceases clapping hands, and merely grins gleefully*
no subject
I am in awe of her. *reverential nod*
And Fahye, that is a really beautiful story. It's realistic, it has a good atmosphere and it's well-written; I could really see it.
Sad, but life so often is. *hug*
no subject
Fahye. What will burning yourself out achieve?
If you need the day of to keep up or take a break, then take the day of. You wont fall that far behind.
I worked out that I missed 2/5 ths of yr 11 and 12 combinded. Im still doing ok.
Ok I wont get a UAI of 98 or even about 85.
And the marks show i dont know the subjects. But you cant miss that much from missing one day, work out a day when missing will hurt your learning the least (I feel naughty telling you to wag)
The result for you will be better. Dont burn yourself out...wait till uni ;)
Oh and im going to tell you this from now on.
DEFER. TAKE 2005 off and go and explore the world before you work yourself to death.