curling our hair together – 200 is a scary number

Thank you laptop for this wonderful gift, the erasing of an hours writing. That’s a fairytale I won’t get back, a love-letter that I’ll never write again, and a piece of my day lost forever. Thank you for your blessed glitch moment, I’ll treasure your plastic hide all the more sincerely.

…. damn

I’ve been starting to learn how to write with a pen again. Black ink, smooth on paper. I’m finding that my script has deteriorated far more than I expected though my fingers still show the warp of writing, complete with the tell-tale nub on the middle finger of my right hand, so perfect to rest pencils on. Bill, blonde, found me here and now we are to pen-pal while I am away. I’m writing in the black book I got for the holidays as I can take it anywhere and jot with my hearts impulse without crumpling the paper as I used to with stationary. Wretched pieces of paper that I would have to work carefully to spread open. Receipts, napkins, and countless pieces of note-pad, all demolished under various inks. When I didn’t have tree-rags, I would use my clothes or an arm. I want to write while looking over water or under a tree, as if to spite the fact I’m always caught doing so on transit. Miles transcibed in fifteen lines, I’m twice shy of missing my stop for the letters now. Once I circled a thigh, only to go swimming and lose it all to poetic blur.

The ocean is as still as a stone. The sun setting douses the revealing light with the steady horizon, protecting the illusion of waves moving in such harmony as to produce no movement at all. I think of sine waves, troughs canceling out. Hard blue, it’s what I see from the window over the hotel roof, looking like a washing board, like the hair of a thirties starlet, impossibly perfectly coiffed. The science behind it, I want it.

With regards to my correspondence, I’m uncertain what to write, how to splay my words properly on a page. I think about writing of my day, my plans or even fearfully trying to tell a story, nervous because the person I’m writing to seems to know me more than they should be. It’s an odd way to follow a friendship, cherished chance meetings at drunken gamer parties. Not a safe way to judge personality development, the flowering, maturing personal semantics that create a human being, but it’s almost enough. I found out the other day that he thought my extravagance back in the day was on purpose, rather than knowing that I merely didn’t know to hide it, recovering from a childhood tease of dying strangers and hotel rooms. It made me laugh to know that, another puzzle piece to keep by me. I’m sorry I missed years of kissing him on his birthday. I’d write about that if I knew him better, if he ever told me he loved me in sobriety. I’m too young to know anything, but sometimes I think I do. I’ll assume a little bit because I dearly want to. (Fie pleasantly on your religion, lovely, but not because it’s not mine, but because you assume as well. I saw you look at me.). You’d think with the Damocles Sword of 200 readers, I would be a bit better at knowing what to say.

I wish I had a proper pen, a fountain for words to drink from. This ball-point thing doesn’t scratch the way I’m used to. Where’s the sound??

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