2004-09-17

This reminds me of something

�Why do you write?� she asked

�I couldn�t tell you exactly...I just feel compelled to sit down and write,� I respond

�It must be one of those things you feel quite passionate about then, right?�

�No...I couldn�t care either way, but it�s a large part of myself I definitely cannot ignore.�

�When�d you start?�

�Since I learned to form letters, but it wasn�t until last December that I really began to let go and embark on the journey towards expressing myself. Words were no longer just written on paper, but they suddenly became an extension of my...soul--for lack of a better word. I�m sorry, I feel that saying �soul� was too profound.�

She smiles, �No...feel free. But haven�t you ever sat down and wondered what truly drives you?�

�I know the answer to that...�

�Well?�

�I have trouble saying things directly. So I can write an entire paragraph about bark without it having to be about bark...know what I mean? Writing is an alternative to crying, it�s an alternative to many things...and it�s so much more, because it�s my ultimate form of relief. It�s my only way to express how Chopin makes me feel, and believe it or not, my writing is driven by the beauty I find in solitude...the individual.�

�After reading some stuff--hope you don�t mind--I also began to think that you�re afraid. Let him go, Libet. Appearances can be quite deceiving--physically, you�re so young and pretty...and you smile quite a lot...�

�Well, I do mean it when I smile.�

I don�t know why on earth I would even expose myself in such a way...why I would even tell someone else what drives my writing. I told her about my fear of isolation and obviously, I couldn�t help but mention Roger.

The problem is that, no matter how many times people tell me about spiritual/emotional growth, and human experience, and the fact that we must all go through these stages...I don�t understand many things--they go over my head.

Forget it--I need him. A year ago, on the 22nd of this month, him and I spoke for the last time. I didn't know whether to apologize profusely, and in fact, I didn't even know whether or not I even did anything wrong--did I hurt him? I was going to tell him, say: "Roger, I love you...or at least it feels like it, but all I know is that you make me happy--simple."

It's been a year, and I should be over everything by now...I still feel as weakened, and powerless as I did the first day.

But she's absolutely correct in saying that I've repressed my feelings, and my greatest flaw is my tendency to do that. Without elaborate metaphors or similes or prose, perhaps what I have been needing all along is simply to say that I was another heartbroken girl.

Memories are now flowing back too soon. And yet, I sit down and am trying to make sense of everything and restrain myself...I absolutely feel as if I need to find some way of control.

I'll be damned if I have to release more tears...but unfortunately, it's what I want. For these reasons, I feel so attached to Chopin. To truly understand the music of Fryderyk Chopin, one must take the gray melodies and mold them--ultimately, they'll narrate our own tales.

I always say that Etude in E Major reminds me of a summer day...but without certain instances, smiles, laughter, whispers, and kisses, summer days are empty and void of meaning. I usually refuse to finish the sentence, but now I believe it's time: Etude in E Major reminds me of the summer days I've spent with him.

I despise this month precisely for this reason.

aeka at 9:41 p.m.