16/05/04
there's something more worthwhile, knowing that all the mistakes you made were a result of doing what you wanted to do. sometimes i worry about things from the past being dredged up and thrown around like rotting meat. what some people call mistakes, and shy away from, are the things i'm most proud of.
like my year of socialism and ending up with less gained knowledge than ever before, but a wealth of slogans and near arrests. sometimes i'm angry that i was used as a pawn, but i knew all along and decided to sacrifice the worry for the greater good of the revolution. all that happened was a bunch of people were lied to, and no petitions ever made it out the office door.
sometimes i wonder what they all thought about the irony of the two private school girls, handing out leaflets in our uniforms, skipping the pub and going home straight away to study ib.
we got it.
given the chance, we would've stayed with our comfortable, bourgeoise lives.
sometimes i think we could save the world together, me and m, but there's too much blood and dirt beneath the skin for that. too much passed between us, you could say, despite it all being words filtered through third persons.
funny how friendships end up like that. we hate each other because of what someone else said. who remembers? who even knows. yet we're both still in awe of the third person. everyone's still in awe of her, still loves her, despite these fractured friendships that surround us all.
i'm reading angela's ashes, and i tell s, to fill another uncomfortable silence. he asks, isn't it depressing? i go hot and dig my fingernails into my palms under the table. yes. but does it need to be said? am i to stop reading it because it's 'depressing'? it's true. this is true. this is life. i am angry. i am angry and bitter because of these questions and comments, this picket fence boy. it's depressing, so don't read it, turn it off, flip the paper over so you can get straight to the sports section without catching a glimpse of the blood on the first page.
yet, he goes on. 'yeah, i know, it's sad. so why are you reading it?'
and i have no answers. just some clenched teeth and frustration. again.
'my grandpa is irish', i say.
why do i say this shit? that has nothing to do with it.
'oh, so you feel closer to him?', he asks.
no, no i don't. it's not that. these are not the reasons. we are just not on the same page.
i can't do this. i am so impatient. i am too scared to write a biography on my fucking liverjournal user page because it might not be right.
i just want him to get it, to cotton on, like other people.
he wants us to grow together, and i tell him i don't think we have a base from which to grow.
'i just want to be like my dad. if i can end up like my dad, ah, then i'll be happy', he says.
i have never been more scared. so i give him money and tell him to go and pay, and i sit there waiting for enough cold air particles to hit my cheeks and take away the red.
there are marriages like this.
he drops me home and i walk down the path, listening to the sounds of crashes being averted as he pulls off into the traffic again. horns beeping, him swearing and thinking about how he's tired.
i crawl into bed and read.
like my year of socialism and ending up with less gained knowledge than ever before, but a wealth of slogans and near arrests. sometimes i'm angry that i was used as a pawn, but i knew all along and decided to sacrifice the worry for the greater good of the revolution. all that happened was a bunch of people were lied to, and no petitions ever made it out the office door.
sometimes i wonder what they all thought about the irony of the two private school girls, handing out leaflets in our uniforms, skipping the pub and going home straight away to study ib.
we got it.
given the chance, we would've stayed with our comfortable, bourgeoise lives.
sometimes i think we could save the world together, me and m, but there's too much blood and dirt beneath the skin for that. too much passed between us, you could say, despite it all being words filtered through third persons.
funny how friendships end up like that. we hate each other because of what someone else said. who remembers? who even knows. yet we're both still in awe of the third person. everyone's still in awe of her, still loves her, despite these fractured friendships that surround us all.
i'm reading angela's ashes, and i tell s, to fill another uncomfortable silence. he asks, isn't it depressing? i go hot and dig my fingernails into my palms under the table. yes. but does it need to be said? am i to stop reading it because it's 'depressing'? it's true. this is true. this is life. i am angry. i am angry and bitter because of these questions and comments, this picket fence boy. it's depressing, so don't read it, turn it off, flip the paper over so you can get straight to the sports section without catching a glimpse of the blood on the first page.
yet, he goes on. 'yeah, i know, it's sad. so why are you reading it?'
and i have no answers. just some clenched teeth and frustration. again.
'my grandpa is irish', i say.
why do i say this shit? that has nothing to do with it.
'oh, so you feel closer to him?', he asks.
no, no i don't. it's not that. these are not the reasons. we are just not on the same page.
i can't do this. i am so impatient. i am too scared to write a biography on my fucking liverjournal user page because it might not be right.
i just want him to get it, to cotton on, like other people.
he wants us to grow together, and i tell him i don't think we have a base from which to grow.
'i just want to be like my dad. if i can end up like my dad, ah, then i'll be happy', he says.
i have never been more scared. so i give him money and tell him to go and pay, and i sit there waiting for enough cold air particles to hit my cheeks and take away the red.
there are marriages like this.
he drops me home and i walk down the path, listening to the sounds of crashes being averted as he pulls off into the traffic again. horns beeping, him swearing and thinking about how he's tired.
i crawl into bed and read.