Intense.

Anti-climax enough for you?

I don't know what it is. I guess it's just a process, maybe? The way it makes me tremble when I think about it. I find it scary how sometimes I can't even identify with my own emotions. I don't know what I'm feeling or why, which makes it difficult when people confide in me. They ask why and I answer "why not?" instead of some profound, deep explanation.

My entire book was summarized to me today by a friend of mine who is going through something. She said to me,
"All this...everything that is happening...has made me realize...that we're just children playing adult games. We're doing things we aren't ready for."
Yes. Yes. YES. That is entirely what Catalyst is about.

Now I'm at a stage where I'm figuring out what I'm about. Figuring out how to control the off-balance these recent events have thrown me into. At one stage I'll be calm and collected, but an objects reminds me of a memory which reminds me of a memory which reminds me of a memory and...suddenly I'm back there, and I'm scared and confused. It's hard to know sometimes...whether or not you're safe...not from...anyone, really....just yourself?

I dunno. It's annoying. All those things that I felt and said that don't seem to matter anymore. Not at all. Time wasted? Time lost...time worth losing? Who knows. Time will tell.

So now I'm stuck at school, in a Study Period, with a Uniform Detention for wearing the incorrect sports pants. I have not had a detention for years.
...
I feel really bad now.

--

It's that feeling of knowing that you can never have nothing to do; because you've got so much work to do...but you feel the compelling desire to leave it alone. Not because you're sad or annoyed with it...but because you simply can't be bothered. It's always starting that is the problem. Once I start, I find it very difficult to stop; but I also find it very difficult to start.

It seems everybody is breaking up with everybody; or being turned down by somebody lately. Relationships are going downhill. Cassie and Simon, Mick and Sarah, Rachel and ... I think his name is also Simon; Oliver and Holly...myself...
I wonder what it is. Something about June-July. Even I have recently--and unknowningly--broken a heart.
Weirdly enough, it doesn't mean all that much to me. Maybe I'm just focused on other things. Maybe I'm not ready. And it's odd, but for once, all these "maybe's" that are running through my head aren't quite so scary. Maybe this is the change I was waiting for? The change I was praying for...not just the external change, but the change within myself...
Change...as in...
Good-bye to cynicism.
Good-bye to paranoia.
Good-bye to angst.
Good-bye to unyeilding anger.
Good-bye to my grudges.
Hello acceptance.

I've been going to bed earlier, and sleeping better too. I was in bed this morning...
6:55am.
I opened my eyes to face the purple wall that was the right-hand side of my bedroom. Frustrated by the early morning sunlight that flooded into my room every time I forgot to close my blinds, I rolled over to face it.
I never close my bamboo curtain at night anymore, because it's broken; and I had it in such a way where it stayed curled up at the roof and wouldn't fall. Last night I took it down to shield the noise coming from my room because I was recording.
This morning, painted on that curtain, was a pink heart. A pink heart of sunlight. Somehow my blinds had shaped the morning sunlight in such a way that it shaped as a heart on my curtain.
"Take a photo." was my first thought as I eyed my camera sitting on my desk about two meters away.
"I'm so tired, though." Was my second.
"This moment may never come again." was the third, and on that thought, I got up into the cold and took a photo.

And it's so true. I may never capture some of my most treasured moments ever again...the cliche carries more meaning than what I originally thought.
...
I actually can't think of the cliche at present.

Like right now.
In this moment....I may never have it again.

And I hopefully may never have a detention again.

And he'll tell you.

He'll tell you that he's always there for you, that he always has been there for you, and while he makes those empty promises you're sitting there absorbing it, taking it in, slowly being fed the mindless obscurity that feeds your melancholy; because in truth you just have no idea. You have absolutley no idea.

And for sixteen years, you're the criminal. You're the one who is in the wrong; you're the one who has caused him all the pain; you're the one who needs to pick up the phone and dial those eight digits that allow you to hear his ever-so-distant voice echoing at the other end; almost soundlessly.
Reception?
Emotion?
Deception?
Yes.
You've been decieved. For sixteen freaking years, you've been decieved.

He lied that he loved you.

He lied that he's there for you.

He lied about every single little thing that he ever told you.

What sort of reality is that?

Reality?

The reality is that you've finally woken up. And you will never forgive him.

You bastard. I will never forgive you.