Whenever I watch a sitcom in which one character hopelessly pines away
for another character who seems oblivious, I just can't help wondering if
that character actually realizes how the pining one feels, but refuses to
acknowledge it.
Going home brought back a flood of memories. So odd, I'm never very far
from home and yet just going back to my room calls up so many forgotten
memories. I went through an old notebook of writings last time I was in my
room, and found some stuff that I had forgotten having written, namely a
trashy romance novella that I wrote while bored at my grandmother's house one
week. I'm not sure why I wrote it, I think I wanted to prove to myself that
it wasn't hard, that it was formulaic, and that I could make just as much money
as Danielle Steele if need be. Even then I knew that my own attempt at pulp
romance was sub-standard, but reading back over it yesterday it made me physically
ill. It's as if all of my careless longings had been distilled into a single
notebook, all of my lustful thoughts and idealistic notions.
I've never destoyed any written work before, but I sat down on the floor and
tore that book into little bits, meticulously going through the scraps and
further ripping them up until I was sure that not a single word remained whole.
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