Lighting it on fire wasn't the right way to handle things, nevertheless , she burned it away. All of it, into the fire, her memories up in flames. Blue light, her eyes, coal. Smell of wood, burning paper, her perfume, the sweater that you borrowed that night you were cold. No. In it goes, a picture. Anniversary, a resort, smile. No, a funeral, screams, tears.  It burns, it dies. She dies.  A cremation.

Yet she drags you with her. You feel the heat, you are in the fire. You are in the fire, but you are not burning, you will not shrivel and die. Everlasting heat.  Why won’t you melt? Why can’t you join the ash? Because then you’d be with her. Then, you’d be where she is. You can’t be where she is, she saw to that.

A crackle. Whispering flames. Whispering.

“I love you.” Her hand took yours, her eyes drew you in. You laughed, pulled her in, kissed her. A kiss that would last forever, a kiss that you thought was forever. Alive, your heart, for the first time. Awakened, fluttering, floating. “I wish we could stay like this forever.”

“Of course we will.” You’re above them all, looking down. Nothing exists, only this.

Lies.

Crackle.

Into the fire, your shirt. The one you wore when you met her. She pressed against you, the smell of vanilla, the taste of cinnamon. On her, a sleeveless top, plain and perfect. A smile, laughter, beauty, life. Perfection.

Crackle. It grows louder. It did grow louder.

Flames. It went up in flames. The spark suddenly ignited. Extinguish! No. She would not. She ran the other way, toward safety, toward another. You remained in the fire, alone. Love gone, beauty gone. Her vanilla scent planted on another. Her words recycled, their meaning lost. You, lost, crouched, crying, screaming, dying.

It smells like death, the burning.

Who would have thought the necklace she gave you, the one that can not be burned, would become a chain? You’re bound forever, stuck.

The crackle dies. It fades. Where is the noise? Don’t leave me, not with this smell, not with the death. No, no... come back. I can’t be bound to death. Don’t fade, ignite. I want the fire! I don’t want the silence.

But did she mean it? Or are you burning a story, a fabrication? Are you burning a life, a memory, or a fairytale. Are you burning a lie?

There is no fear left in your eyes, only a void. Your eyes are glazed over, your self protected behind the shield that is your body. Scared, no. Fear can not exist now that you’ve left her, the girl they see, left her on the surface as you slid deeper below. It’s safe down here. Dark, cold, empty, safe. They can not reel you in with their pleasures, make you promises with their eyes, sign the deal with their soft and phony lips. Down here, everything is at a distance, everything viewed at an arms length. Nothing penetrates the surface, no shards of glass can slip through and scrape against your being. Here, there will be no scars.

You used to be the one who laughed.

“Are you okay?” he asks, his voice a whisper, though he speaks loud. ‘You’re acting weird.”

“Fine.” You smile. A spin, a flick of the hair. Calm, cool, collected. Suave. An impenetrable wall of steel. One that reels them in, down into a bottomless pit of nothing.

The dark is comforting. It’s refreshing being blind.

But the trouble is that you know. You do not feel it, you can no longer see it, but you know its missing. You know there was once something there, a sweetness gone sour, and unbearably so. But it’s better this way. Too cold is better than overheated. Too false is better than transparent. The ignorant can do less damage.

But wasn’t it you who gave them the benefit of the doubt? Was it not you who said ‘trust, feel, risk...be?’

But that was then, that was her. She only made mistakes. She was killed by her mistakes.

A kiss, hard, empty. You give more, you wear less. You listen to their sounds. Passion, pleasure, feeling. It ends, you turn, you leave them yearning. A smile and a step, the opposite direction, a phone call that you’ll never make. It’s better being the one who holds the knife.

But wasn’t it you who wore the halo on her head, her heart on her sleeve, their hurt on your shoulder? Wasn’t it you, the one who preached compassion?

Maybe once, long ago. Maybe before your mistakes pushed you down below.

Okay, so my actual journal is missing. I haven't written in it since before I went away this summer... but I'm sure I've seen it around. I got in one of my reflective moods and decided to read through it, but it is M.I.A. (if of course a journal could ever be 'in action'....I'm tired, I don't know, ignore me.) But yes, this could be a bad thing. The rare occasions I write in that thing I pour my heart out, and I'd rather not have my family be able to see all of my secrets and what not... not that there really are many, but even for them to see my thoughts would be weird.
Where does a journal run to?
Okay now it is definately time for bed.
 

On another note, how am I already behind in school? I just fail. Oh, and I did fail an Anthro test that I studied pretty damn hard for. I'm obviously brilliant.

Oh the plus side, I went skiing on friday... and I rock. I thought I wouldn't be able to ski anymore, but it came back after one run. When I first picked up speed I freaked out a little bit, but it wasn't very long before I fell into my old style and what not. I even got a compliment:) I believe it was "for someone who hasn't skiied in two years, you ski REALLY well, and old school style too." Old school style is apparently a good thing? Anyway's i'm bragging and being all cocky here, but it made me happy. It's the one sport that I've always loved, out of everything that my parents put me into. I really enjoyed hockey, and dance, but I knew they weren't really going anywhere. Skiing is something that I'll always do... and can't believe that I went without for so long.

So I meant to go to bed at midnight. Again, I'm brilliant.

blahhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh
Yes.

I've been realizing some things about myself as of lately. I guess you could say it's this quest I've been on for a while... trying to see where exactly I fit into things, why exactly I do what I do, what I have to do in order to feel entirely complete. To sum it up, my realization is this: I am a coward. Because, really, that's what it all comes down to; my lack of acknowledgement of my non-heterosexual desires up until pretty recently, the passive nature that has people taking advantage of me rather frequently, my lack of initiative in trying out anything that I've aspired to do throughout my life. What it comes down to, is not that I'm a nice person, that I'm indecisive, that I'm unsure of myself. Rather, it's the simple fact that I am scared failure-- failing at friendship, failing at happiness, being pronounced worthless and insignificant in something in which I've hoped to thrive, failure to get all that I want out of life. And, so, my oh so rational attempt at making sure that I don't fail at achieving that which I desire is to avoid it completely. It makes lots of sense, right? I avoid giving myself opportunities so that I don't try and fail, therefore always having the fact up in the air that I could maybe succeed-- to never know seen unconsciously as better than to know I was wrong. I've been trying lately to figure out how these negative thinking patterns developed, to pinpoint exactly where my confidence seeped out of me, leaving mere fragments that allow me to carry out the most minimal aspects of life. How did a girl who used to write stories that she emailed to all of her friends, who tried to start a newspaper at her elementary school, who was happy with B's and who never cared if she won or lost, end up becoming someone who hid from anything that could possibly crush her? Somewhere along the lines I began to crush myself. I walked all over my own sense of security, over my ambitions, and climbed down a ladder from my wishful platform onto a lower one where everything was simply fine. The fall would be less, as the pleasures would be too, while I was able to stare upwards as what could be as I refused to let myself know. And as time passed, climbing back up that ladder became a subject of increasing anxiety. Procrastination became a lifestyle. The mediocre was accepted. Content I would be, and I would know or wish for no other until I finally allowed myself insight into who I've become. A coward.