It's been far too long since I wrote something other than 'woe is me, I had a miserable day and I'd like to share it with you.'  I thought I would add something of more value [to me, at the very least] to this Xanga.  It's rusty, but here goes:

I love paper.  To be far more specific, I love college-ruled looseleaf.  Holding just one piece in my hand, I feel as though I could conquer the world - that is, if I am to believe the old adage 'the pen is mightier than the sword.'  I have been entrusted with the power to let my worlds fill a piece of paper left otherwise untouched; I have the power to provide something new and fresh to be shared with whomever cares to read it.

When I am given the task of sorting through boxes at home, my family has learned to make sure that I come in minimal contact with old notebooks.  No matter whom the author may have been, I consider a notebook in such storage to be fair game, as it's been carelessly left with other mundane items.  If I happen to discover such a notebook, my productivity immediately halts.  It's a compulsion - I want desperately to have the opportunity to understand the thoughts of the author during that minute snapshot of time.  I'm fascinated by the concept.

There's something so personal [not to mention eloquent] about a pen writing on paper.  An expert would readily admit that one's handwriting would tell as much as one's actual words would, if not more.  Handwritten passages are raw, are basic, and hold a sense of vulnerability that lends itself well to the emotional aspect of writing.  It's one that the internet can't always hold up to.  Don't fret - I recognize the irony.

At work, I generally have to rely on electronic forms of communication for the sake of time.  As enjoyable as it is to put pen to paper, I usually have much to do and less time to do it.  That being said, I simply don't have the time to track down those pieces of paper after they've been circulated according to need.  That may be someone else's job, but certainly it is not mine.

So, I resign myself to an anonymous life of night-writing, in that I work all day, and write when I have the time.  In some senses - well, most, really - I prefer it.  My writing is borne out of passion for an exquisite craft, not out of survival.  I have no third-party-imposed deadlines; my only deadline is writing quickly enough to record my thoughts before they retreat fleetingly to the back of my mind.  Using white-out is a means to improve myself, not to make my writing acceptable for a third-party editor.

I realize that that makes my lifestyle unique ... just like everyone else's.  By admitting it, I am thrown in with the throngs of all the [would-be] writers before, during, and after my time.  Luckily for me, my identity isn't defined by any of that.  It isn't found in how well or often I write - in that sense, I consider it a personal victory.

Tonight, I shall make the decision to find contentment in that.  I will put my pen down, rest my hand, and slowly allow my brain to gear itself back to what needs to be done at work tomorrow.  I will confidently fall asleep with a smile on my face, free of the concern of 'who may be reading this.'  Please do not read apathy in that statement - it is merely a separation of interest from neediness.  I will find my happiness within myself [insert religious platitude here - yes, I find it from God, but it is still a personal choice originating within myself] - it will be a happiness isolated from the opinions of others.  It will be a difficult journey, but it is one in which I am determined to give my best.

Will you?

As a footnote, I would like to point out that I did write this on paper first [college-ruled looseleaf, to be precise].  The comments about my pen are not mere figurative expressions - at the time I was composing, they were appropriate.

When did honesty become so difficult?  When did heart-to-hearts stop taking priority above anything else?  When did that human connection get lost?

Did I let go without realizing it?  Did I offer too much of my friendship at once?  Did I give too much of my love [platonic, thankyouverymuch] too early?  Is there something wrong with me?  Is there some fault in me that prevents me from trusting in a friendship and not letting it be threatened by others?

I am quite desperately needing a heart-to-heart with one of my closest friends - I feel as though in the past couple of days I've lost everything of our friendship.  I haven't talked to him, haven't seen him, nothing.  Absolutely nothing.  That's difficult for me.  This friendship felt new, felt different - felt stronger.  Maybe I was wrong.  Maybe the distance is getting to me [okay, so that's more definite than I may want to admit to].  Maybe there really is something wrong with me.  Maybe my history is just a bit too painful for me to accept friendship - so I let go before I ever realize how desperately I relied on it in the first place.  That is, before I realize how closely I really held it.

A huge part of this is that I'm feeling so ridiculously threatened by someone else - it feels as though my friendship is slipping through my fingers and there's nothing I can do about it ... mainly because this other person takes priority over me and I know it.  I don't understand it, but I'm fairly sure.  Maybe that's paranoia or previous hurts taking over, but I do know that on this trip, I've often felt alone in the first place.  Feeling as though one of my closest friends is growing more and more distant from me hurts.  Especially since the "other friend" has no idea - and if they did, I think they would be surprised to find out how I'm really feeling.

Unfortunately, I'm not sure about that.  I don't know how they would react.  I'm not sure they would really care, my decision being based solely on past actions.

::sigh::

I miss my friends.  I miss my friendships.

Dang it, I really need a hug ... and there's one person whom I have in mind [not gonna lie about that] that ... it would be fantastic.  Actually ... there are a few people that I really wouldn't mind just "existing" with - commiserating without relying in any sense on words.  There's a "soul connection" that comes only with deep friendship.  I need that right now.

... and a hug would be a bonus.

I'm in shock.  I'm going to be completely honest about that.

My Laura.  My dearest Laura.  My locker buddy.

...is gone.  I miss her.  I love her.

Still.

Forever.

...and always.

I always hear that life is short, that life is fragile, that none of us are promised tomorrow.  For us teenagers with the indestructible-complex, none of us seem to understand that life may end tomorrow.

For most of us, it won't, that's true.

For three people, it did.  One was my friend.  My roommate for the senior trip.  I miss her.  I love her.

Still.

Forever.

...and always.