2004-09-15
The Innocents of Youth
If I write at this moment, simply it is because I cannot fall asleep. My room at night feels calm, and I lay under my canopied bed--my tranquil body goes limp as my eyes search the ceiling.
Very badly, I�d like to be 16 once again, and fuel the fairy-tale images that used to flood my mind. All of them, like dust swept from under mats, are now gone and scattered. For years, I had taken the smiles, laughter, sorrow, and pride out of the characters in my books. Suddenly, a year ago, I had to create these things by myself.
I have lost everything I remember about Roger--his smile, his eyes, and at times, I cannot even recall the exact shade of his dirty-blonde hair...not like I used to. It seems as if the only things that remain with me are the memories of restless nights, winter afternoons in which I thought only about him, and a poem I once wrote--the only poem I have ever written for another human.
Yet, I do remember simpler things...instances I only know of. I still know the feel of his fingertips gently on my waist, or the way his voice sounded when he whispered in my ear, and perhaps my fondest memory was that of him teaching me to say �waltz� in Polish. After numerous tries, I couldn�t pronounce it correctly, and still, he�d say, �You�re close...�
I wasn�t...
But we�d laugh, after numerous attempts to teach me random words in his native Polish language.
Learning Polish wasn�t difficult...it was difficult to tell my heart to stop beating solely for him. It was difficult to erase memories out of my head, and it was also quite difficult to convince myself that I was not at fault for anything that happened--whatever that was...
My once na�ve soul has been sullied since--marred by this very experience. No longer can I produce the careless dreams of a child in her field of gold; feathered dreams are an impossibility once one has tasted heartbreak in some form. The dawn is always so fleeting, never staying long enough for one to bask in its freshness and gentle glory.
Someone, regarding this journal, wrote in her profile--the innocents of youth...
And since reading that particular comment, I have wondered what this means, exactly. As if there were some sort of beauty in my innocence and youth, in my discovering things--both good and bad--for the first time.
Libet, you are cool water that trickles upon the dried, desert sand
One of my English teachers had written this a long time ago on one of my short-story assignments. Now I begin to think that these English teachers read my papers with joy, more out of a chance to be reminded of the innocence and folly of youth, rather than for any real literary value.