23 November, 2005 + 3:09 a.m.
I am tired. I know I shouldn't be. I'm young and I've got my whole life ahead of me and a pair of healthy lungs to breathe in everything from the smell of the ground after it rains to cigarette smoke that leaks in through my bedroom window as he sneaks a few puffs on the front porch before dinner time.
Sometimes people tell me that I am wise beyond my years, and I just want to laugh in their faces. Childish, pixie laughter that trickles out of me like a stream of water, or a trail of wishing stars and tell them that it's all bullshit. But instead I just grin, my ivory teeth flashing from between my chapped lips and we change the subject and talk about how we can't stand the weather or what your favourite band was that week. I would always just listen -- nod my head, agree with everything you said, correct your grammar occasionally. You never let me talk, anyway. Sometimes I'd like to think that was the reason why small talk was never really one of my talents. My voice often falters and is a whisper: soft and delicate like the lace curtains you peep through to spy on the neighbours.
We were never the same person, yet we were alike in so many ways that we could barely stand each other. High school. Promises. Secret pacts. So many fucking memories, I can't even begin to count them on my pale fingers. I insist that I want to go back, and do it all over again just for kicks. I'm lying. Sometimes I feel safe where I am right now, older in years, but younger on the inside, somewhat wiser, a little more cautious, yet sometimes clumsy.
I am tired. I should probably get some sleep. My chest rises and falls with every soundless breath that escapes through my nostrils. The ups and downs, the highs and the lows. Of me. Of life. Of everything.
It's too early in the morning to be taken seriously. I should probably get some sleep.