(no subject)
"You can't just sit and dream about things that can never be real," she murmured.
I can think about whatever I want, real or not real. Fiction. Non-fiction. I keep dreaming about his not-real arm around my not-real waist and how his not-real voice would constantly assure me that yes, everything will be fine and yes, things will work themselves out. Yet my not-real waist is, in fact, very real - and it's too wide, too high, attached to too-jagged hips and too-skinny legs. I spend too much time writing not-real letters, letters that he will never read because he doesn't exist.
This room is too small, too dark, too hot, too stuffy. Too constricting. So many unmentioned things have happened in this room. Both real and unreal. Whispers as the movie softly played, only revealing secrets because it seemed like the right thing to do. Under covers and the overhead fan, giggling only because that's just what happens. She told me about her ten years of life and I told her about mine and how in kindergarten my cousin and I got into a fight and he pushed me into a plethora of tumbleweeds. And how I was crying and sobbing with microscopic white needles implanted all over my skin, and how I told my cousin that I hated him and wanted him to die. Yet I didn't know until later that he went to his room and cried. That he didn't mean to push me. And I didn't mean to say I hated him; it just popped out. Arms around my shoulders never felt so wonderful at that point. Exchanges of promises to always be friends, forever, and ever, until death.
Until death rang in my ears as I fell onto my mattress. Death was never an experience until her. Images of her blonde hair mixed with blood on the asphalt could never be pushed out of my mind, no matter how hard I tried. Death wasn't not real; it was very real, too real, so real that I replaced food with pills and work with sleep. Friends forever, she said; friends weren't supposed to lie. There are so many things to hold on to. My pillow, my cat, my journal, him - though he's not real.
The pillow gives temporary comfort, the cat rubs her face against mine, my tear-stained and softened journal gives only so much of an outlet. And him. Wasn't he supposed to be not temporary? Didn't he tell me that yes, I love you, yes, I promise? You and me - forever. I found out too late about his not-real kisses, his not-real secrets, his not-real promises. How can you do this to me, how can you throw this away? He couldn't tell me that we could still be friends. He couldn't tell me that he still loved me, and that he was sorry, and that his not-real kisses and not-real secrets and not-real promises really did mean something. His heart died the day he made the wrong decision, and so did mine.
not about anyone.
inspiration from b. h. and j. s. f. and c. d.
they're not important.
picture taken on highway four.
with sunglasses over the lens.
and next time someone asks what my writing means,
they should ask me.
[lorna]