Her dad passed away today.
Death. Throws all superficiality away doesn’t it? In the face of death, grief is this and this and this and this. For all the things I want to say, I cannot.
Something about how I remembered vaguely about praying Your will be done, not ours, not ours, not ours.
This is it. Anymore will only cheapen everything.
I love you. I just wish it sounds so much more than hollow words.
A word for the sense of nostalgia you have for a period of time you haven’t experienced.
A word for the feeling that washes over you when you see something so embarrassing you feel embarrassed yourself.
A word for not recognizing yourself in the mirror.
A word for a person who always chooses bad fonts.
A word for the collective oohs and ahhs of a crowd watching fireworks.
A word for the limbo you enter when you are in a good dream and wake up halfway, but push yourself back, because you don’t want the dream to end.
A word for the spaces between words when we talk.
A word for goodbyes for someone you know you will never see again.
A word for the dusty emptiness left by suicides and the murdered.
A word for a memory so powerful it smothers the other memories around it.
A word for time, when time goes all out of whack and moves either too slowly or with agonizing speed.
A word for the moment when you know everything that follows will be different.
A word for the lightest touch, when that touch means everything.
A word for the rush of warmth you feel when you hold the person you love the most.
I stood beneath the purple nightsky and turned eighteen.
Damien Rice & Lisa Hannigan – 9 Crimes
Leave me out with the waste, This is not what I’d do
It’s the wrong kind of place, To be thinking of you
It’s the wrong time, For somebody new
It’s a small crime, And I’ve got no excuse
Is that alright?
Give my gun away when it’s loaded
Is that alright?
If you don’t shoot it how am I supposed to hold it
Is that alright?
Give my gun away when it’s loaded
Is that alright
Is that alright with you?
Leave me out with the waste, This is not what I’d do
It’s the wrong kind of place, To be cheating on you
It’s the wrong time, but she’s pulling me through
It’s a small crime, And I’ve got no excuse
This is going to be a terrible introduction to my new blog, but I’m going to do it anyway, because it’s time I place all these silly worries behind me and write on. This is my third blog so far, and I hope to write regularly when I feel like writing and not be withheld by fears and time constraints.
Today is my last day of being seventeen, and this would be one of my last chances of stating that word seventeen over and over again for myself, because I’ve always thought that being seventeen is the perfect age of youthfulness. Somehow I wish I dealt with the complexities of emotions and people better during my seventeenth year, but it has been a good year nonetheless, of learning and becoming. Tomorrow I will no longer be seventeen, sadsadsad. I think it’s time to dig out the birthday letter I wrote to myself last year and contemplate on whether the past year was anything like I’d envisioned.
