Scarred

"I miss who we were
In the town that we could call our own
Going back to get away
After everything has changed."



I just read over my blogs so far and something kinda struck me. I'm much better at writing about internal drama... emotional accidents and things... than physical things like my accident in Christchurch.
My grandma is over right now and of course we had to explain to her what had happened to me. I started trying to tell her but the more I talked, the less sense I made and the more the story I was telling disturbed me. Mum had to take over. I couldn't believe how much it bothered me to recount what happened. I guess that I had spent so long pretending that it hadn't happened that admitting to myself that it had was terrifying. I couldn't read the blog that I wrote about it here, either. I suppose this is what the phrase "scarred for life" really means. Not necessarily something you think about all the time, but something you try not to think about because it frightens you so much when you do.
After the accident, Dad said that he hoped that it wouldn't stop me being adventurous and fearless like I was before. I'm not sure whether it will or not... I might go back to the snow, but I am never going to Porter's Pass again.

The boy- ex-Shadowboy- is coming back to Auckland next Thursday. I can't wait to greet him at the airport with all of our friends! But the funny thing is that I feel so different. Once upon a time my heart would have LEAPED with hope and happiness and so on... now that he's just my friend, it's just a comfortable warmth, a passive feeling of rightness. I'm not used to a feeling like that. I suppose it's really good because it means that cutting my inappropriate ties to him has worked and healed. But I won't know how I really feel until I see him.

I was talking to a friend of mine- the one who betrayed me earlier- the other day and I started describing his writing style to him, how it wasn't like I expected. I had expected more mist and illusion and confusion, whereas his style was more solid and... meaty. Practical. No mystery, just straight storytelling. He said, "mist and illusion have nothing to do with telling a story". But I disagree. The way you write something has a HUGE impact on the experience of the reader.

This is a bit of a weird entry because I'm basically waiting until I have to leave for my English 121 exam, and filling up the time with writing. I have a feeling that the things I have said so far are all little seeds of future entries or lines of thought that will develop later into fully fledged rants. I just wanted to get them down before they sunk into the torpid swamp of writing an essay this afternoon.