TL;DR, I know. X'D
Any if you do, I'd love some feedback.
I don't know if it's worth it to continue, but I feel good when I'm writing this.
It's supposed to be slightly ramblish and nostalgic, that's the idea behind it.
Should I write more?
Y/N
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Dear Diary,
Oh dearest diary, it seems I am growing older. The wrinkles I once cherished and sought after I know view as rings for the children to count. My stories are the only things I have left and you are my only listener. My children have grown older and have no time for me or silly tales. It would be silly of me to be angry at them for such thing though. If I were them I'd leave me too. Always speaking in tongues, always speaking "wisdom", but tell me what else am I to do?
Words seem to be my only gift. They have wrapped themselves in my heart and dwelled there for some time now. They would never leave me. Only one thing I held my heart tighter then words. I call him a thing because calling him a person seems so unfair.
Have you ever meet a person who could melt your heart with one look and at the same time freeze your soul with an invisible chill; I have. A person who's very existence seems to conflict with your well being. This person has been and will probably remain one of the most significant puzzle pieces to ever make it's way out the box and into my life.
Do not be fooled though a relationship like this one does not by any means happen over night. It is not one of those story book moments where the main character looks at a person and suddenly the tension is so thick the reader chokes on it. Our relationship started like any other; pure and untainted.
Looking back, I realize nothing good could have come out of me and him. What a warped thing our love would have been, had it ever existed. He was a reflection of everything I hated in myself. In his eyes , I was nothing more then a mere female who had come to cling onto him with what little life she had left. He may have been right, I may have wanted nothing more but his attention at first. I may have followed him the very way a duckling follows the fat bottom of his mother, but I assure you it would not remain that way.
Now, in the silence of my room I reminisce, hoping I might find some meaning in what I felt for him. Could it have been mere physical attraction? I've never been one to dwell on the longings of the body, so this assumption seems illogical. Could it have been mental? I did enjoy the words that poured out of his mouth like cool water from a glass pitcher. My biggest fear has always been that it may be something I can not explain. I fear that I may have truly loved him.
Love. Such a fickle thing love is. I’ve always found it interesting how a four letter word could possess so many descriptions. Surely, love one feels for their mother differs enormously from the love one might feel for say a Playboy Bunny. What I do know is that what I felt for him was beyond anything I had ever felt before.
The way his eyes would dart towards me, causing my heart to flutter. It makes me sick thinking about it now. How could I have fallen for that? Sure, those baby blues could have melted the ice burg that took down the Titanic, but surely I was smarter then that?
He was the only person who could cause my skin to be sensitive to the slightest touches. A hug felt like a kiss when I was around him. His fingers touching lightly to my back; a feeling I longed for when he was around. Even thinking about it now sends a small wave of happiness through my body.
I'm getting ahead of myself aren't I? My mind seems to wander when I linger on thoughts of him for longer then a millisecond. We were younger then, so full of life and whim. Then, my heart not longer yearning for such whim created something heavy. A feeling I knew would never amount to anything. It burned deep inside my soul, until the day he decided it should be no more.
Dear Diary,
It reminds me of younger days to start off each entry in such a youthful way, but I suppose since I am spilling stories of my adolescence it is only fitting.
My first entry was all about how my mystery man made me feel, but I suppose I should tell you about how I met such an interesting fellow. It's not everyday you meet someone like Henry Conway.
I remember thinking the first time I laid eyes on him: "He would never talk to me." Be it for better or worse, I was wrong. He did speak to me and it took some time, but soon I would become dependent on that voice.
Even in my youth I wasn't a silly girl. My mind didn't run to fantasies of marriage or story book romance; I was not one who believed in love at first sight. Besides, at this time he had a young girl’s arms draped around his neck and his lips planted on someone I had assumed he cared for.
I don't remember our first words or even our conversation for that matter. What I remember most vividly was how I went out of my way to impress Henry Conway.
He was by far one of the most intelligent people who's lives I had fallen into. I don't think for one second he was interested in the idea of stumbling into my life, but my heart was intent on being in his. I blame all the misfortunes that came along with my loving him on myself.
I went out of my way to seem appealing. What he wanted was far from what I was and I felt that I should work towards being appealing. Most characteristics were easily changed, but others were not so easily manipulated.
Take for example my physical appearance. I am and always have been a short plump woman with infant like features. Though, he never emphasized the physique of his significant others, there was always that fear. That fear that I was hideous in his eyes.
I was in no way the ideal picture of a woman. Curly dark brown hair and dark eyes inherited from my latin background. I dressed in fashions most considered odd, but I was content with not being perfect. Some part of me believes, that if I had looked the same as every other female in his life, Henry's eyes would have passed right over me.
Though there was nothing I could do in that arena I made it a point to change my intellectual level. I was fairly intelligent for a girl my age, but attempting to converse with Henry at my level was often times infuriating.
He was on a level I had never attempted to reach. This is one of few things I thank him for. He is the reason I take pride in my intellect even today. I viewed intellect as something handed out by Gods and obtained only by a chosen few in my youth. Though some are graced with gifts, I soon learned intellect could be gained.
I read and memorized every sideways fact I could and though I could never beat Henry, I always presented a challenge. Unlike most females I heard him talk about, I held my own. Warm blood would rise to my cheeks when he'd give even the slightest compliment.
I remember one conversation vividly; the topic was religion. He was going on about how religious people lack the ability to create their own values and morals. I'm no perfect Christian and I won't claim to be, but I remember this statement making me angry. Henry had this way of arguing where he would sort of shove everyone into these little categories. It never sat well with me.
"I see where you are coming from with that," I had said easily, "but even if something doesn't exist, what harm is really being done? The people who practice these beliefs are leading good lives, finding love and devoting themselves to a greater cause. Sure there are those who pretend for glory, but for those who aren't their very souls are content with knowing they are helping someone in someway. Is that really a bad thing?"
I watched his face sooth as he absorbed what I had just said. Weeks of nodding and agreeing all seemed to fade with that statement. Time stilled as I waited for him to respond. In my mind it was do or die.
"I guess that makes sense," he didn't stop, but that was all I heard. He wasn't one to just drop a subject, so he continued on, but I was fixed on that one statement.
To anyone else I know that statement would have meant nothing, but to me, it was gold. Henry Conway had acknowledged my opinion. Now thinking about it I see how foolish I was to hunger for this man's attention.
I'd like to believe he was blind to what he was doing, but even in my naive days, I knew better then that. Henry was smart and he was playing every card right and even though I could see him pulling these right cards out of sleeve; I never stopped playing.
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