Runaway

.

.

you don’t see this enough in books or movies; no one wants to tell you these things. but they happen. they’re real.

feeling alone. being alone. you have faith it’ll go away once you know who it’s about. you’re lonely because you’re an only child. you’re lonely because you have a brother but no friends. you’re lonely because you have a brother and a whole busload of friends but no boyfriend. you’re lonely because you have a brother, a whole busload of friends and a boyfriend but no -

finish the sentence, never stop wanting. but realize, understand. it’s not them, it’s you. in this place with 6 billion people, you’ve built an island. dug the moat with pale empty hands that refuse to hold on. filled it with the tears you’re always crying for no one and everyone. it’s what you do best.

you can be happy and still feel the knives in your feet when you turn around. uproot tendons and bone through scar tissue, long as the breaths you draw in this cold air. swallow stones. try to fold hope into fingernail clippings and creased sheets.

throw the cup away, dust yourself down. it’s not them. it’s you.

.

Intro

.

i wonder if i’ve ever told you that this blog was built on a promise? 365 posts, a year’s worth of writing – that was the deal. no less, no more. call me a sucker for punishment, but it seemed like the only way to keep me updating the blog.

and in the pathos of the previous year (or two), it really did slip my mind. i wrote because i wanted to. i wrote because i felt like i had to. all those jagged slipshod sentences that passed for entries; this was my method of therapy.

but i was picking through some drafts today and it hit me. 365 isn’t that big of a number as i once thought. it’s almost here, after all. what do i do when it finally hits? it might be stupid to stop blogging because of a childish promise. then again, maybe the things i type have gone stale. i’m not deluded enough to imagine that i’m a writer by any stretch of the word.

and to be entirely honest, i haven’t been writing much at all these days anyway. i rely on scribbled notes and half finished entries from a long time ago. clichéd as it may be, it’s because i’m happy, and the words don’t come easy when i’m like this. the boy has faded. my feelings have faded. the hurt is there, but only when i’m dredging it out. and even then, it’s so insignificant that i just don’t care.

so maybe keeping that promise is the right thing to do?

.

.

this is the 361th post.

,

Guest Room

.

evan keeps wondering how, wants to know the so-called secret. try to remember what you’ve done to get this far. oh yes. day in day out, smile like people are looking. even when you’re alone. if you lift the corners of your mouth fast enough, you push back saltwater and involuntary gasps.

you hate sweet things, but that’s okay. pour sugar into someone else’s mouth. bake. pretend that the hurt filters through your fingers into the flour. think one happy thought for each eggshell you break. sing to your soon to be cake while it  tans in the oven. scratch out names in leftover frosting. wipe clean.

go for a walk when everything’s quiet (but not too quiet) and bring along the soundtrack to your life. wait for the moment when the music swells and drips down to the feathered edges of your hair, then run. run! don’t ever stop, not even when your shoes fly off and a woman with a dog shouts at you to please come back, you left something behind.

write letters to people you’ve never met, on the back of jumble sale flyers. leave them at the first doorstep you see when you get off the bus. write letters to people you used to love. use them to papier-mâché a box, then paint over the whole thing in your favourite colour. this box; put letters into it. letters that you’ve written to people you love now. promise yourself that you’ll send them someday.

.

.

evan, do you understand?

.