Every time I dream of him, he gets more and more real. This is the fourth time that I remember that I knew it was him, and now I don’t even know that he’s any different from all the others that populate my imagination.
He’s ruining me for real life, for the run of the mill nice guys, for the assholes.
I’ve always been terrified of seeing his face, because once I did, it would be IT. Ka-splash. Camphor falls. End of story. So why do I feel bad that he doesn’t exist?
My life is quite the most interesting imaginary toy I possess, and I’m taking it out for an experimental joy ride. My inner observer is back. I was watching today as we nagivated the complicated and infinitely interesting minefield of akwardness. A bit of hesitant maybe-maybe not. A smile, but not a frown, because that would make it even more messed up. Keep it nice, yes, friendly, yes.
There’s nothing quite like what might have been to make one doubt the intentions of another; nothing that can erase the slightly bitter tang of regret that comes of doing nothing.
And yet not having the courage to do something.
You’d imagine that wearing red would make you feel confident. Bold. Vibrant.
It just feels like a giant bullseye painted on you, and like you’re screaming – victim here, please attack!
What happens when you are perfectly at home when you return to four narrow walls that were never yours (nor could be) ? It’s the ohshitohshitohshit, not again! feeling. And it leads to more paper cuts of pain. Mindless work … Continue reading
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Camphor's 