Page out of a Diary

Inner thoughts and feelings. Secrets that can never be told. We live each day of our lives in mask and masquerade, as subterfuge would protect our status quo. This story is a rendition of a deepest charm, a truth hidden, a page out of my diary.

Her languid hair was telling of the child within, smooth, sleek. Yet there was some sort of serenity in her smile. Something about it that left me satiated with a glean of her blitheness. I’ve had this gut feeling that her eyes could smile, radiating the winsome autumn peace that she longed for as the trace of her jasmine lingered in the air. Her doleful eyes never ceased to wither my heart.

 

Round the corridors, down the dank hallways, through the hasty metallic lockers, she never failed to liquidate the recesses of my frozen palpitations. The pulsating organ that was once there, it’s gone now, snitched that same day I discovered that her eyes did glisten under luminescence.

 

The veritable inclination to snatch a glimpse of the velvet rose was far too compelling, alike a rising crescendo against reason and good logic. And yes of course, screened intricately under the cover of erudite pretext.

 

She was my Vitamin C. A daily supplement without the penitence of Vicodin.

 

 

 

8 months into college life. Yet, the institution remains outlandish. Her presence was inimical to the nature of my work, but it undoubtedly gave the reassurance that the pestilent façade from academic austerity hadn’t converted too many. Mercenary acquisitive attitudes permeate the egocentric cultures of the vicinity, and it does scar the erudite sum and substance of the proximity. It’s not my psyche to decry these attitudes at whim, but truly, I do detest such dregs.

 

A nut in a sea of bolts recognizes himself as an alien. Indeed, I must be one of those idiots who choose the self-made path of solicitous fascism.

 

“The individual has always had to struggle to keep from being overwhelmed by the tribe. If you try it, you will be lonely often, and sometimes frightened. But no price is too high to pay for the privilege of owning yourself.”

 

But I don’t feel the contrition. I can’t, for its acquiescence has been overrated. I’ll test the victory bells in my own panache.

 

“But just like the arrow leaving the bowstring, there’s no turning back until it reaches its target. We’re not very far from ours.”

 

From the quixotic mirage of February’s felicity, to the delirium of June’s freedom. August was desolate. September still seeks an answer. Dismal? Doleful? Life still goes on, though I concur that insanity’s often the logic of an accurate mind over-tasked.

 

Innumerable encounters had me prying my eyes away from hers. There was the fear that she could become cognizant of my thoughts, and my secrets.

 

“Nothing makes us as lonely as our secrets.”

It’s true. The darkness that flowed through the sins of my blood could never match her blessed charm.

 

Her cheeks of cherry blossoms were mild. And sweet.

 

“Somewhere there's someone who dreams of your smile, and finds in your presence that life is worth while. So when you are lonely, remember it's true: Somebody, somewhere is thinking of you.”

 

It eclipses the proximities’ galling defects.

 

 

A Page out of my Diary

16 September, 2008. 5:30pm.

I was juggling myself between both remedial classes. 5:30pm. Both had just concluded. I caught a glance of my fleeting rose in reposed slumber at B41. Her tender silhouette was pervaded by a dreamy languor. Silent, elegant, yet beguiling.

 

Somehow, this assures me that part of me hasn’t been fully extricated from her deliberate bindings. And part of her is fortuitously imbedded within the gravity of my soul.

 

25 seconds felt like 5. Someone square-rooted time.

 

She hasn’t noticed me. I shall leave before she wakes. Corporeal evidence of ambivalence at work.

 

5 days, 6 hours, 25 minutes and 12 seconds before Hell Week. It’s disquieting.

 

 

13 October, 2008. 8:36am.

And the wistful eyes which whilom glanced down upon the empty classroom found mitigation. Yet, the willing heart was far from restitution. A once feverish tenor, an enamored élan; it has succumbed to a writhing force of 600 hours.

 

A most jaded month. Prolonged mental blistering is definitely enervating. Indeed, my mordant humor is waning. Might be a consolation for some, but it’s certainly evidence of a forfeiture of my natural equanimity.

 

I rested myself upon the exact settle of which my velvet rose laid 27 days ago. A pacific texture resounded in vibes, the unfounded fragrance acclimatizing my spirit to the placid flavor of my heartstrings. That discrete spot had a finical allure about it.

 

Surreal? Scintillating? The mind charades a veneer that reality would not dare fathom. I poised myself into her former lassitude. An essence of passive indolence permeates my complexion. The ghost of her presence strays into my revenant, refilling it with anima.

 

A call from my proximity relegated my lofty pensive.

 

But my impenetrable eyes and inscrutable countenance gave little away.

Author's Note

Please do comment! =)

Reviews

[addiedd]

Yo doug. I must say this is great writing. Ah... youth and romance never seems to be able to keep each other away. Right? Tis good that you are able to create such a beautiful picture in one's mind.

[winter]

Nice stuff. Do tell who said sleeping beauty is. Or at least give more clues.

However, I can sense a certain degree of your sense of humor, try to keep it low, or it'll just fall flat.