I forgot that was Fushimi's line for a second! I'm very sleepy, I think -- it's been a crowded sort of day, if a very mindless one. I'm excited to go, (I really am, I think, somewhere underneath the blank stretch,) and the sentiment's true, if not for the reasons of that awful fictional character: everyone separates from everyone else! I'll miss you, I'll miss you, I'm missing you already as you sprawl upstairs, as you stomp around in your ugly green bathrobe like a skinny teenage dinosaur, missing you in every tense. It's dumb. I'm tired and this is at least a little bit of a misdirected fixation.
We'll figure something out. I have to believe in that.
It'll all work out! This is really a K-provoked day! (ProvoKed???)
Rationally, if I'm detached, I should find it easier than this. I'm not detached at all. I'm scared and I'm emotional as hell in spurts, it just has a tendency to shut down on me.
I don't know why I'm taking the photo with me. (Pictured: a man, early twenties, Asian with an awkward shock of dark hair, half-grinning as a little girl in a red dress swings up on his arm. She has a bowlcut, the chubbiness of childhood, and his thin eyes. It's an ugly combination. In his other hand, the flat cardboard envelope -- a diploma, you'd guess, by the black robe that stretches over his shabby trouser knees.) I should, I think, want to remember this conversation --
w: Hey, hey! You still have Dad's address? m: Why? w: I found my photo of him! I'm thinking about sending it to him, make him remember that I exist and feel bad about it. Think it'll work? m: [ shrug ] He's not going to care.
This probably says a lot about me more than him, really.
On a separate note: how funny. It's been a year! Over, really, but I found the note to myself and as far as anniversaries go, I could do worse than symmetry.
The butterflies have gone but the fondness remains. I wonder how this'll work out.
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I forgot that was Fushimi's line for a second! I'm very sleepy, I think -- it's been a crowded sort of day, if a very mindless one. I'm excited to go, (I really am, I think, somewhere underneath the blank stretch,) and the sentiment's true, if not for the reasons of that awful fictional character: everyone separates from everyone else! I'll miss you, I'll miss you, I'm missing you already as you sprawl upstairs, as you stomp around in your ugly green bathrobe like a skinny teenage dinosaur, missing you in every tense. It's dumb. I'm tired and this is at least a little bit of a misdirected fixation.
We'll figure something out. I have to believe in that.
no subject
Rationally, if I'm detached, I should find it easier than this. I'm not detached at all. I'm scared and I'm emotional as hell in spurts, it just has a tendency to shut down on me.
I don't know why I'm taking the photo with me. (Pictured: a man, early twenties, Asian with an awkward shock of dark hair, half-grinning as a little girl in a red dress swings up on his arm. She has a bowlcut, the chubbiness of childhood, and his thin eyes. It's an ugly combination. In his other hand, the flat cardboard envelope -- a diploma, you'd guess, by the black robe that stretches over his shabby trouser knees.) I should, I think, want to remember this conversation --
w: Hey, hey! You still have Dad's address?
m: Why?
w: I found my photo of him! I'm thinking about sending it to him, make him remember that I exist and feel bad about it. Think it'll work?
m: [ shrug ] He's not going to care.
This probably says a lot about me more than him, really.
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no subject
The butterflies have gone but the fondness remains. I wonder how this'll work out.
Delusion, delusion.