One Week of March

Awake Next to You Yet We're Miles Apart

Awake Next to you Yet we're Miles Apart
March 1, 2018

The movie ended as quickly as it had started, due to me spending the whole time with my peripheral vision peeking at her beauty. It's not an odd thing to do, look at the one you love, staring into them like somehow that will help you get closer to them. Newsflash: it wont.
After the movie we ended up walking around the mall for around 2 hours, shopping and eating as regular teenage friends would do. But normal girls don't look at other girls, desperately, longingly, lovingly. They just don't do that. They don't have intrusive thoughts of holding hands or even daring to touch lips in the ultimate expression of affection that we call a kiss. In which I still don't fully understand the significance of. Your first kiss is supposed to be this big deal and all, but all it is is touching one of your most vulnerable body parts to another's. Occasionally shoving your tongue down one another's throat, what's so special about that? But nobody ever does that on their first kiss, the first is sweet, not full of smut or pleasure, just love. Maybe that's what makes it so amazing. A full surrender to that person, you are trusting them with your most sacred parts, your lips before giving them your heart. And if they hurt your lips in the wrong way, then wont they do the same to your heart? Maybe not.
I ended up sleeping over at Lillia's house that night because even on Sunday's we did not have practice.

When we got home from the mall, it was around 3 p.m. We decided to go to the park and practice driving in the huge parking lot conveniently located there. Her and I were polar opposites when it comes to driving, Im overly timid and scared, and she's a bit reckless and excited, but in a cute way. Our quirks sort of cancel each other out and form this normal type driver.
"I hope I don't hit anything," I said wearily.
"Sienna, stop worrying about hitting things, its an old car, and its just a parking lot," she smiled, playfully punching me in the arm.
"Well, if i kill you, its your fault," I laughed. She laughed back. Once again we had achieved a cacophony of laughter.
I drove nearly perfectly, feeling the leather of the steering wheel underneath my worn hands. It was cool and rough until my hands had warmed it up. Sort of like how a person can change you. Before I met Lillia I was shy, well I still am but even more than now. But the point is she tweaked my soul for the better. She made me someone that I could never be without her. She transformed me, and I loved it.
That's the thing about first love. They will most definitely not be the one, but you will always remember that they changed you for the better, or maybe the worse. When you are happily married (hopefully) you will most likely remember your first love with a burning passion of remembrance.
First love is funny, because it's almost always despised, no matter if it's gay or straight. Because parents are so afraid to let their children go, to let them fall in love in fear of being heartbroken. Because heartbreak is always accompanied by first love. Always. First love and heartbreak are the best of friends, leaving everyone they befriend with a tearstained heart and a lovely memory. And the big thing is, I'm not really sure what love is. I just got these mass of feelings when I looked at Lillia. I didn't recognize the feelings, so I called it the only thing I haven't felt yet; love.
As I took my hands off the wheel and my feet off the pedals Lillia said, "Well done Harrison," with a sarcastic yet sincere tone, "but the Wolfe is about to rule the world hunnyyyyyy"
"If you so insist," I sighed with a giggle while stepping out of the car, "The wheel is all yours, oh mighty Wolfe," I mocked.
She drove like a swan gracefully fluttering down a freshly melted lake in the beautiful spring air. Yet without the grace, beautiful still, but she is not a graceful driver. I'm not even sure I know what makes up a graceful driver. She drives relatively choppily, but well. Better than I.
This often happens you see, the author of my story so insists that I always must devolve into my mind. Into the darkest depths, so my picture is painted in a way that looks different to I, than to anyone else. Plunging into thought after thought, thats what makes literature so interesting though isn't it?
I find the thought of life odd. And you might wonder why, because that is all we know, and to that I say, "exactly." The thing is, life is different for everyone. None of us see the same colors, therefore we can't see the whole world. None of us feel the same things, so how are we supposed to know what "normal" is if we have nothing to compare ourselves to? Were like robots, programmed the same, but we all have our miniscule flaws.