#:journal

She smelled of tangerines. The one I took the fall for. She must have had. That’s why the smell of tangerines and spice is mine. That’s why Christmas is my favourite holiday, even though I have never really celebrated it. It must have been tangerines. But why do I remember her fragrance if I can’t tell what her face looked like? Why did the tangerines stay if my soul no longer sings her name? Her fingertips are no longer imprinted on my skin.

She ate stars for supper. I’m sure of it, like I’m sure of the fact that with my breath I could sometimes draw frost patterns along his skin. I don’t remember it, but the feeling which reverberates within my bones tells me that stargazing feels like her. And if it’s not because she held her hand out and grabbed the star-cookies from the sky-jar, I don’t know why else. I feel like the edge of one of the stars was too sharp and as she pressed it against her palate a few drops of her blood fell onto the star. “I don’t want it anymore”, she must have had exclaimed and she threw the star back onto the sky. And there it stayed, among the others. Stargazing is for her. It is her. And that’s why I feel like I taught her about the course of the moon.

And I told her of eternity and of trembling and how the definition of both means pretty much the same. I taught her...

(I’m creating fake memories about her, because none of my journals speak of her. She’s not written down. And her footprints slowly disappear from the meadows of my memory. I cannot let her disappear, because she existed and I will remember her, even if it’s by the fake memories.)

Sometimes I want to burn her. Sometimes I want to bury her underneath the snow. But the problem with snow is that it melts. It’s annoying -- the way her bones always protrude from underneath the thick white cover. Whether she’s twenty or sixty-six. I close my eyes and imagine little creases life painted on her face with time. Wrinkles on the faceless woman. I didn’t forget to imagine the rest of her face -- I didn’t want to paint it. No colour I could think of would equal the colour of her eyes, no frown I have seen in this life would compare to hers.

She cried in summer. She cried with the field mice that came to visit her every time it got too warm for them to stay outside. She cried, because I would not be there for her in summer. I would not be there for her during spring either, nor autumn. But it’s the summer that was the most lonely. But every winter I’d return to her and she would call me her sunshine, and I’d frown at her silly antiques but laugh along with her.

Save me some of your laughter and I will take all of your fear.

I’ll swallow it all for you, and fearless we will run through the meadow until we reach the riverside. We’ll tumble in and let the current take us to the city where people communicate through silence, because all the words are banished. We’ll live there until we decide to rebel a little and the laughter born in our lungs starts ringing in the dimly lit alleyways. And each one of us will become a thesaurus, with gentle kisses we’ll be drinking sentences out of our necks, licking syllables off of our shoulder-blades and sucking letters out of our wrists. You’ll live in me for a little while and I’ll live in you.

There’s a thing about people... ha, not one thing. There’s approximately seven milion thirty four thousands and three things about people or at least that’s what I’ve learnt in the past five years. Now I realise how I hardly knew anything about those I’ve claimed to love in the past, those whom I have decided to take a fall for. Seven milion thirty four thousands and three. There’s their noses and hands and toes and thoughts... and then there are their little inventions and discoveries. And even if they think they’re nothing special, each one has their own super power, they are capable of things you wouldn’t expect from them. You have your regular cuties standing tall and proud in the face of danger, you have your scary monsters turning soft. You have enemies and you have friends, travellers and doctors and achievers. There are misfits and rolemodels. And rolemodel-misfits. There’s no limits in shapes and sounds. That’s the forest of people, their feet deep underground -- searching for nutritious feelings, kind words buried deep underneath the undergrowth. With their heads proudly kept up, birds making home on their branches and squirrels hiding in between the strands of their hair. And like to each forest, there’s a secret to this one too, and the beauty of it would make the Presence jealous.

There’s a thing about love. The fact is, there’s so many conditions. But I love. I love the little moments when he smiles at the moon. Or she holds the ice-skate in her hand as she’s about to put it on. How they tie their shoelaces, their hair and their hands. The fingertips touching lips. Or drumming against your neck -- because you make that funny little sound then. You know, the one. I love how every moment is different even if I just do the same things over and over again. And how paint dries on our skin and we don’t care to wash it off for the next twenty-four hours. I love how the muscles of your thighs tighten in the dance, I love the moment when you scream on top of your lungs through the window... yours, mine... it doesn’t really matter. I love how you run barefoot with me through the forest and how little the thorns pricking and scratching our knees matter when we’re together. I love how you take time to look in my eyes, how you’re aware I exist and how you brush your finger against my cheekbone. There’s the infinite amount of love for all the seconds of your sleep altogether and for every each one on its own. I love the candle wax even though it’s hot. I love your smile even though it’s sad. I love the outside and I love the inside. Especially the inside of people -- their lungs and their veins, their dendrites and synapses and the chemical reactions going inside their bodies. There are many yous and I love many yous.