Monday, July 25, 2011

You Give Her Reason For Believing

I wanna give you a valuable tip: Trains, they leave earlier on Sundays.

Someone annoying (generally someone like me) will tell you that these things are a sign. Or a test. It just felt like a big humiliation as I ran through Lime Street Station like a little girl, fear manifesting in a storm of nausea in my stomach as I raced down an escalator and called for help.

I'm scared of escalators. I don't like going down them. I practically flew down this one, a small fear replaced by a more immediate one.

Everything was okay, you know. My folks bailed me out, coming to collect me and leaving me feeling more like a child than ever. In a good and a bad way, the way where you feel like you're too old to be such a fool but also the way where they make you feel so safe, like only a parent can.

I got some time to stand on the edge of the world and think. And cry, for a little bit, but that passed. You know, when I'm trying to cheer myself up, the same memory always springs to mind. We were walking through St. John's shopping centre (I don't know why, there is nothing in there) and he grabbed my hand and spun me around and around. It's always that memory first.

My best work friend came back today. She is magic.

I'm dead serious. Magic. She has this incredible talent of saying something that always makes me feel better/happy/giggle.

She just got married. And is as happy as I'd hoped. But her hubby, he has to go away to work for a few days. They've not been separated yet. She described how even thinking of him leaving made her almost inconsolable.

I'm not about revelling in others' misery, I swear, but just hearing this made me feel so much better. Not in a Schadenfreude kinda way. I've just been driving myself crazy with pity and the overwhelming fear that I shouldn't feel this way. But she made it seem so simple, so obvious:

You love someone. You miss them.


Why am I telling you all this? I suppose I miss sharing things here. What was a trend for my friends, was something I've been doing for a long time. An instinct, you might say. I wrote a diary from being seven years old. They're all hideously embarrassing when you read them years later, but they are my life.

And hey! The Ghost Girl tans! My forearms are half a shade less white than they were a week ago!

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