There is a small possibility that we might be moving house. This town is not a good place to live. Small town syndrome? Small village syndrome, please.
I feel ill. Ill in every way. Back, stomach, head, feet. I am not a hypochondriac but I sound like one, don’t I?
Emma, is it? You’re doing your Leaving Cert. now, are ya?
Yes, and preparing to fail.
There are two of me. One is very happy and strange and loud and oblivious and probably a bit obnoxious. The other me is sour and wound up and makes no sense. And nothing makes sense to her. And I’m that second person now. There’s lots of reasons. Some that I simply don’t have the balls to relay here. But I’m not good. Sometimes I am awful. And avoidant. And unaffected by the things that really should affect me.
Was I really that horrible before? I didn’t know. I thought I was perfect. I thought I was the victim. I didn’t realise that I was idolising someone who now means very little (though still more than I’d like) and disregarding someone else who is now the most important person in my life. I love you so much. I am sorry.
I love the simplicity of words. When words are simple. In their raw state with all their meaning and feeling intact. I’m a sucker for embellishing. I’m a sucker for talking incessantly, digging holes.
I want change. Blue. Brown. Anaïs. That would be enough for now. Maybe someplace new to be.