I get sentence fragments in my head. Today’s - 

You will never remember this - you were never there. 

Saving the world you’ve turned into. 

I’m not sure what that second one means. I was just letting my mind run along, doing its own thing, and it turned that little nugget up. I was instantly captivated by it. It seemed a powerful idea - well, more like a powerful nugget of an idea was hidden it - if only I could find out what it meant. 

my parents are behind me. my dad’s watching cricket while my mom’s just sitting there with my brother, enjoying the hanging out before she and dad head up to bed. 

I hate writing with them behind me. With them around. I am terrified, mortally, of them reading anything of what I write. Of what it matters to me to say. 

Any bit of me. the idea of them being anywhere near anything that’s me - knowing, seeing, even being aware of anything that is me.. it repulses me. 

So I open up my facebook. I open up majorspoilers.com. I do the trivial things I can do until they go away and leave me to myself. 

It repulses me when people ask me what I’m writing - like they have a right to know. Like they have a right to know anything about me. It’s like they have x-ray glasses and are looking under my clothes. That’s what it feels like when someone evens ASKS me what I’m writing about. 

I realize that sure, sometimes I’m writing in public and people get curious. But I’ve yet to meet a person whose “Hey, what are you writing?” doesn’t sound like, “Your scribbling seem like you may be marginally interesting. Entertain me with your quirks.”

With my parents it’s different, of course. 

They’re just not allowed to see me. 

But enough of that. They’re gone now. 

myheadthoughtsareallawhirl. 

I had a walk today. My head was just GOING. So, so many beautiful thoughts, ideas, feelings, and now, all I feel is irked. And petty. 

Sooooooo. There’s this girl. 

Of course there is, there’s always a girl with you.

Shut up, this is different. 

Mm. But is it? 

…look - 

Is she pretty? Do you feel an urge to write poetic things about her eyes?  

Gee. It’s like you’re in my head, you stupid voice inside my head. So yes. She is. But.. okay. forget buts. This is beyond the point. The point is she’s one of those people you try to impress.

I feel silly writing this down, by the way, but I’m falling out of habit blogging and I really want to get back to it. 

So she found me on twitter, god knows how.. I mean, sure, my twitter handle’s basically just my full name, but I haven’t seen her since high school and we weren’t exactly close friends and the only followers I have are a childhood friend from a WHOLE different friend circle and some.. random random people. And I follow my childhood friend and Jean Grey’s School for Learning - which is awesome to be able to do. It’s like, mini-comics!

Anyway. So she blogs about blogging, and I enquire as to whether she has a blog. And then she asked about mine. For I have a rep as a writer that is ENTIRELY undeserved. 

I mean, I am a great writer, yes, but it’s not like she’s rea… oh, right. Haha. She has read at least ONE of my ramblings… 

Okay, kids, gather ‘round, it’s story time. Once upon a time, a girl, and actual, honest-to-goodness gorgeous graceful charm of a girl had what was described as a crush on me. I’ve a feeling Spider-Lady would despise the term, but shush, you, it was high school and terms are allowed to be lame there, just like awkward photographs we all wish we could burn but somehow never really do… So yes. She was crushing on me. It was immensely flattering - no girl had ever shown interest in me at ALL before that day, but I saw it in her eyes, one day… just for a second, just for a flash, and I saw it in its undeniable clearness. But I had no idea how to bring it up to her. But just as I’d found out about her crush, she found out that I knew. And then I found that she knew I knew. And then she found out that I knew she knew I knew. So we both knew we knew. Only did we say a word about it? Nuh-uh. Especially not me, what did I do? I wrote stuff down. I rambled in an attempt to be both humorous and honest, telling her what I felt(flattered. I was a little to stunned to even think about whether I was INTERESTED in her or not(okay, I wasn’t. But… gorgeous girl interested in me for the first time ever! Who passes that up with a shrugging?)), and asking her to.. well, be a little more open. So I had the page of my ramble sent to her, and she and her friends read it and found it amusing and fun(which gratified me, even though I’d misworded something that had made the girl crushing on me panic somewhat) and me and the girl had a talk and the whole thing… well, let’s just say the ending’s rather anti-climactic. 

It was one of the girl’s friends who found me on twitter. Ummmm… we shall call her Ichor. Ichor, friend of the first girl to show actual interest in me, girl I looked up to with envious rage in high school, girl that I basically.. y’know. Wished knew be better. At least the impressive bits. 

Wished I had more impressive bits to impress her with in the first place. 

So I linked her to my OTHER blog and I want to write something impressive there. But I came here first because impressing Ichor was the only thing on my mind and I couldn’t really write about that there and HERE.. well, here I’m free. 

I mean, I live in mortal terror that one day Neil Gaiman or Gail Simone will look at my blog after I’ve left something in their ask box and read something particularly out of whack… 

no. I’m thinking of them, now, and nothing I could write or would write is anything they’d judge me for. Not them. If anyone gets quirks is them. Moot point ANYHOW, seeing as the odds of them actually visiting this blog are low, but still.. a guy can dream that he can touch the world’s lords and ladies of wordsmansip in some tiny random way, can’t he?

I spied a compassionate man who knew when there was something you weren’t saying. And today I spied the possibility that that’s just because there is so much he doesn’t say himself. 

A million thoughts hiding a million secrets, a handful of people that you will never know. 

A princess lying on her bed, a princess of grit and pride and urban streets who still has room for wonder and has a soul whether she believes it or not.

A man who aspires to one day be a soldier. The kind of man who would give his life for what he already believes in that strongly. I’m not sure what it is he believe in, but if you slice his wrists open, what he believes in is what he will bleed. 

A lost little girl, in her head and her heart, but lord knows she has her feet on the ground. 

A lost little boy, who cries in his sleep, but has forgotten how to make tears. 

A deep, lovely beauty that one can call home, some man’s guiding starlight back, and eyes that will love you no matter what, eyes that will love you even when it breaks her heart, for alack, alas, in her head swim currents of fear, worry, uncertainty and insecurity… the coin flips in place, for she is a security as certain as gravity. We’re all contradictions. It’s what we choose to choose between that makes us who we are. 

Then what we choose… what does that make us? 

I’m not sure it matters. 

Surely it must. We place so much importance on the choices we make.

Why, though?

Because our choices have consequences, affecting reality.

Then I guess what it is we choose makes us who we are in terms of the world immediately around us. There is the darkness behind the eyes, where who we are is what we choose to choose between. And there is everything else, where who we are is what it is we actually end up choosing. 

Wait. Is what we choose to choose between something that makes us who we are, or something that is a RESULT of who we are?

So I take back all I’ve said about choices. Some choices are based on who we are. Some choices are based on who we’ve become. All choices have consequences.. and it’s the consequences that change and enhance who it is we are. Which in turn influences the next choice that must be made. 

yaaaay. i learned something new.