Thumbelina does a nose dive
I used to write to you everyday and now I may not. So in defiance or maybe yearning idiocy I write here. Using our ygm format for a blog feels like betrayal. Like sacrilege. But that is silly of me because we were never more than friends so it seems that the only person I am betraying is me. What is ridiculous is that I still hope. I still think that some how, some time, you will realise that I am her and that by writing to you so flippantly I destroy any chance of that. Which, of course, sends spasms of fear through me. I am a fool.
I miss you. You have my heart. This I know because I saw it lying behind the door of your study, feebly protesting at the draft of the windows you need to leave open and shuffling for space with the other heart remnants that have been there longer and have set up little tea parlours where they consume viscous gossip cakes and bitter tear tea.*
The weird bit about this public declaration of pining is that I will remember that I had told you these things but you would not have read it so you would not know what I was talking about. Meh. That will only be a problem should we ever really speak again….bwhahaha…no, really. I kill me.
Valentine ’s Day is rapidly approaching. Yes, I know that it is a commercial thing and that it is blatantly insincere and the absolute opposite of that which matters…but. It does matter. And as much as I hate to admit it, it matters to me that I will not be able to be wrapped up in you. I will not see the joy that a bit of thoughtfulness will kindle in you. I will not have the utter, blood burbling awesome that is hearing you speak and seeing your head shyly dip when you hear something that touches you and makes you smile. Instead I will drown the remaining Lepidoptera Speratus in my stomach with excellent vodka.
1. Word of the day: saltation
2. Insight of the day: Fear is the mind killer
3. State of the pool: salty bitter swirls of stupid
4. Random thought: how much of a difference does public transport make to a culture?
5. Awesomest lines**:
daar ek kan opkrul
op die bank onder die venster,
die een wat uitkyk tot waar
verlange draai en die rook
van die son wat water trek
‘n stofwolk nader bring
© emma
6. Scripture lines: 1 Peter 1:1,2 which might not seem like much but Sunday eve opened my eyes.
*Ok so that was a stretched metaphor but I liked the image of it :)
** http://blogs.24.com/ViewBlog.aspx?blogid=587355bd-8fc9-42a5-ae6e-0956406529bc
Recent Entries
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