I think I’m in love with days like these. In love with sitting in the sun and talking to a friend and life not being any more complicated than this. But’s it unrequited love, for days like these don’t love me back. Don’t come and visit me very often. They don’t desire me in the same way I crave them. Not in the same way as I hunger, as I long for them. So when they do come, drop in on me now and then, I treasure them. Cherish them. And sometimes I even take pictures of them because I’ve heard photographs’ll last a little longer. Hold me over till I get my next fix of days like these. 

It’s been a stressful week. There’s been essays to write, projects to prepare, and a (four hour!) long math exam to take. It’s been stressful, and there has not been a single moment to sit down and take a breather. To catch one’s breath and regain one’s energy. That’s why it was quite a relief when my friend Rebecca called me yesterday, at the end of this hectic week, and suggested that we have a picnic in a park for dinner. 

So as soon as I hung up the phone, I met her at a park where we both sat and ate Subway and talked and watched other people doing the same things, until the sun set some time around nine thirty. We then made our way to her house where we drank tea whiles watching eight episodes of Keeping Up with the Kardashians. (I know how this looks, but I swear I have better taste in tv shows!)

I walked home closer to one in the morning suddenly feeling quite relaxed and somewhat ready for round two of stressfulness that is bound to start next week Monday. 

Beautiful Becca

The bees knees - by which I am referring to my startling pale complexion and knees.

We saw a couple of hot air balloons - this being one of them. 

It’s almost comical, in a way; the lengths I’ll go to salvage whatever dignity I have left. (Or maybe it was simply to try to avoid humiliation. To try to escape the inescapable.) If I only was a little sharper I’d have known that you can’t escape the inevitable, and that trying to, is ridiculous. Stupid. Comical.  

What happened was that I saw the guy I wanted to punch. The one whose nose I would break. The one whose tears I would drink - and I was thirsty. Hungry for revenge and spilled blood. I was going to prey on him. Call him out on his lies!

And I stood there plotting my attack, less than ten meters away, scrutinizing his every move. His movements were still easy - his steps light, and with one hand he was effortlessly unbuttoning his beige double breasted trench coat - unaware of the imminent danger. He hadn’t seen me yet. 

I take my position. I am going to pounce, I am going to strike. I am, I am, I am. But I am not. I can not. He meets my gaze a second too early. He takes in my stance and immediately sees the hurt in my eyes that I’ve tried so hard to mask with anger. Questioningly and cautiously he closes the distance between us and asks what’s wrong. Here’s my chance. Ask him how he can account for his lies. And then, regardless of his answer, I would punch him in the face. I have my chance, my golden opportunity. It’s within my reach, but I let it go. 

It’s because I am weak. 

Weak. Weak. Weak. 

And I’m not talking about the impact my right hook would make. No, it’s this weakness that comes with trying to avoid humiliation. Both his and mine. As much as I hate him, it would pain me to see him humiliated. And as for myself, I, well I am sickeningly self conscious . You see, if he learns that I care enough about him to the extent that he can hurt me, he’ll know that I am feeble, that I am fragile. And what’s more is, he’d also know that he is powerful. He’d know how his words can keep me sleepless, and how sometimes I’ll forget to eat because I am completely engulfed in thinking about the way his eyes light up when he smiles. And it’s all true, but I can’t let him in on that. 

I have become weak in trying to avoid weakness. 

So it’s almost comical in way, as he inquires what’s wrong, the way my reaction becomes exaggerated. It’s as if my fight-or-flight instinct has kicked in, and knowing that I’m too weak to fight, I flee. I literally turn around and start running. Pushing past people, and fighting through tears, I run. Fast. Far. Furious. And for a long, long, time. 

It’s almost comical, but it’s not. 

I am a person and this a life we’re talking about here. My life. And it may not bear and importance or significance to anyone else in the world, but it matters to me. This humiliation, although it only belongs to me, hurts like it occupied a hundred hearts and not just one. And I can’t escape. No matter how many steps I take in the opposite direction, no matter how many years it’s been since I’ve forgotten those eyes of his, it’s still there. Searing. Burning. 

It was a Friday afternoon when she called. Up until the moment the phone rang, I had been spending the day wallowing in self-pity. I was not quite sure why I was pitying myself, but I found myself finding comfort in watching The Real Housewives of New Jersey. So when I heard the phone sound in another room, I had an understandably hard time tearing myself away from the intrigues on the show and going to pick it up. However, what greeted me on the other line was well worth it:

“Gillian, I’m at your house in 10 minutes and I have burgers and fries.”

 And I smiled and nodded weakly and whispered “thank you,” quietly because in that moment it felt like every shooting star that I’ve failed to see and make a wish on took pity on me (or in my poor taste of tv shows) and came to me in my hour of need. (Not to be melodramatic or anything.) And sure enough, ten minutes later she was in my kitchen with food in her hands. 

But because a friend like her knows me even better than that, she pulled me into my room, found a dress and a pair of black heels for me to wear, and tells me we are going to the Grand Hotel bar which is a 5 star hotel here in Stockholm. And before I know it, we’re being seated by hostess who returns momentarily with strawberry daiquiris and a small plate of bite size snacks. It’s not until 1:30 in the morning and several drinks later that we actually stand up from our comfortable chairs and make our way back home.

And it’s hits me as I’m walking home. I realize that I am no longer wallowing in self pity but reveling in happiness. And what’s more is that I also realize that those shooting stars that I’ve never seen, are perhaps the people around me. It’s they who fulfill me, who make me happy. And that’s all I ever could wish for.    

Elizabeth and I

A new dress from DKNY and a trench coat from Urban Outfitters

Things I would do if I saw you on the street:

• Punch you in the face
• Laugh (At you and your swollen eye and your stupid habit of living. And at myself because I am cursed with a stupider habit of always chickening out and never having the guts to punch you in the first place.) 

It’s been raining the whole day today. Ceaselessly. Recklessly. Large water droplets slowly but surely drowning the city. 

I ran into him today. It was painful to realize that we couldn’t keep up a two minute conversation to save our lives. The words in my diary from last July refer to him as my best friend. 

It’s been raining the whole day today. Ceaselessly. Recklessly. Although the dampness on my cheeks is not from the rain, but from my tears. 

I had this phase back when I was eleven, twelve something, where I would sleep in the same pants I would wear the next day.

I’m not quite sure how I developed this ridiculous routine, but I imagine it sprouted from my shortage of time in the morning and my inherent need to be prepared. To be ready. Perhaps it was a reflection of my apprehensiveness of the future. The uncertainty of it has always agitated me. And, therefore wearing my pants to bed somehow prepared me for what was to come. If I already had a pair of jeans there wasn’t much more I was lacking. I stood a chance against the future.   

This lasted only a couple of weeks until I realized that the discomfort of wearing jeans to bed far outweighed the discomfort of being unprepared. And so I went back to stressful mornings and soft pyjama pants. 

But it’s times like these, when I find myself at the brink of adulthood, that I wish I still went to bed wearing pants. Despite my uncomfortable jeans, I’m certain that I would sleep soundly because for once I’d finally be able to close my eyes feeling ready and prepared for what tomorrow has got in store. 

See, I feel so stupid. But I can’t help it. Can’t do anything about it. It’s this itch in my fingers, and this longing for your eyes to see the words I’ve written, and for your head to understand what I feel. There lies this great comfort in that thought - even if you can’t understand, you’ll at least have a slight notion. A small insight into those unspoken words I never have uttered. And it’s so incredibly stupid, but I can’t help it. 

So, I sit eating lunch on a Monday, or maybe it’s a Tuesday, with the words I want to say neatly packaged typed in a clean font and only 243 characters in my hand. But I hesitate. I can’t send this pretty package. I can’t quite part with it. Can’t quite keep it either. And then I think that it’s stupid not to send it, but stupider never knowing. Always wondering. Imagining those “if’s” and “but’s,” and never being sure. Uncertainty is agonizing.

So I press send feeling incredibly stupid, but yet a little smart. Things will be better this way.