Oops! This image does not follow our content guidelines. To continue publishing, please remove it or upload a different image.
Love is as much a question of the will as it is of the emotion. And if you will to love somebody, you can.
Olivia Sheldon
For days after the accident I would just lie there in bed staring up at the ceiling, and I couldn't breathe. All I could see was white, and I thought of the snow, but I didn't move. The snow would remind me of his spirit and I would struggle to catch a breath, but I knew it would come. I knew it would come the way you know a river always reaches the sea.
Sometimes I tried so hard not to breathe, but it was like my lungs were an impulsive child; doing things all on their own. I didn't want to be on this earth if I couldn't have him here with me. The scratching of the old record was somehow soothing to my ears. It was kind of like a child's laughter, some people can't stand it, others get pleasure from it.
Except the two people are me. I am at war with myself, in my own body, every minute of every day. And nothing ever happens except war. There is no peace in this mind of mine.
I clutch at the place my necklace used to rest and I think of the place we always used to go and a million scenes play across the ceiling like scenes from a movie, as if there was a projector and films behind my head. But there isn't, it's always in my head.
I fear I am going crazy. Sometimes I can even feel the cool metal in my fingertips. But - no - that's impossible. That necklace has long since been gone. The last I had seen of it was in his grasp.
As the scenes come to and end I realize my face has been soaked by the tears I hadn't even known had been running.
It has been a long day, and the lines of this page are blurry and smeared with tears now. Perhaps it is time to put this away. Tonight I hope for at least a few moments rest. I can't continue on like this.
Mary Zeigler, December 1938.
Does history repeat itself? I mean I believe in Déjà vu, but this sounds too familiar. I've lived through this situation - I mean not this exact situation - but I've done the same things. It's too familiar. I read on as my mother described her situation in depth of the death of a past boyfriend. And maybe it wasn't exactly the same situation, but I couldn't help but relate to her situation. I almost wanted to ask her about it, but it probably wouldn't do any good for me.
I slipped on a coat and shoved the book into one of the pockets. Walking over to the window in my room, I watched as the sun rose, having been up all night reading through the diary. I ducked under the glass pane as I climbed up onto the roof to watch as the sun rose to present a new day.
I glanced behind me to see the sky still half lit in stars and smiled slightly at the jewels. I stayed there on the roof for the bulk of the morning just staring out at the sky and letting my thoughts drift like the ocean at high tide.
I picked up the diary with a pen clipped into the binding and opened up to the page I had been on and started flipping through, soon I realized it was over half empty. Maybe mom gave it to me on purpose? Maybe I should start writing in it?
As we gaze uncertain of the future, breaking dawn reveals impending rapture. The darkest days seem to fall behind us. We stand tall with pure defiance.
My curly hand-writing scratches at the top of the paper and down a bit as I continue with my cursive font.
Some say it is not the things we say, but what we do that defines us, but I believe it is the other way around. You see, someone could hit me right now, and three weeks later apologize and be as sincere as ever and I could forgive them. But if someone were to list all the things they hate about me right now, and three weeks later apologize and I would not accept as easily.
This is because physical bruises and scars fade, but it is the ones that you cannot see that you must watch out for. Those are the nastiest most vile things, they will fester and become infected you will always be left with them. The warp on your brain never healing and always there. Just when you think you could be better, you accidentally rub along some lines and the feeling is back. The feeling of uselessness, of ugly, of utter disgrace and disappointment. No matter what someone does, the feeling will always stick. You will always remember how someone's words made you feel, and not what someone did to you.
The bruises fade and you forget what happened, but the emotional scars to the surface always to be known by you. And it is as if everyone can see them, and you are imperfect again. And it happens, the words always stay, running back through your mind, never to be forgotten or forgiven.
People always say think before you speak, but never think before you act. Why is that? Maybe they will say actions speak louder than words, but deep down they know it is in reverse. Words always leave deeper scars.
When the rain is blowing in your face And the whole world is on your case I could offer you a warm embrace To make you feel my love When the evening shadows and the stars appear And there is no one there to dry your tears I could hold you for a million years To make you feel my love I know you haven't made your mind up yet But I would never do you wrong I've known it from the moment that we met No doubt in my mind where you belong I'd go hungry, I'd go black and blue I'd go crawling down the avenue There's nothing that I wouldn't do To make you feel my love The storms are raging on the rollin' sea And on the highway of regret The winds of change are blowing wild and free You ain't seen nothing like me yet I could make you happy, make your dreams come true Nothing that I wouldn't do Go to the ends of the earth for you To make you feel my love - make you feel my love, Bob Dylan
.:He is exactly the poem I wanted to write:.
Short chapter, no dialogue. Hope you liked it though! Big BIG things to come very soon!! :)
