20th January '15
"You told me there would be a permanent record. That they would always know I had been there," you said to me when I questioned you on why in the world would you say something like that to Maya, whom was in a similar situation you were in. We had this conversation last year, and I realized that you believed me back then.
I lied. I knew no such thing. I was scared. Beyond scared. I wanted to pose over you a threat. To discourage you from going along so rakishly with everything that went down. It seemed like it was all going the way you 'planned' it. I was 15 and worried out of my mind. So I lied. I never realized how much stock you put into my words. You never seemed to pay attention to anything I said back then. Never seemed to feel...anything at all, apart from some paralyzing melancholy, or ennui.
I latch onto this unsavory anecdote because Maya texted me today. And I am still reading Salinger's Zooey. All this reading about Franny and Seymour got me thinking of the past. Of our more impressionable years. My desire for your attention, approval, what-have-yous. Not that that aspect has dampened at all [through out the past decade], merely tempered with. Appeased.
Anyway, I can't remember when you said you would be coming back. In a few days I assume. Seeing that my life is completely vacant these days (until God knows when), I don't pay attention to the days. For some –ah, mother interrupted me just now. I've lost my train of thought. Nevermind.
Speaking of mother. She has been telling me an awful lot about the work politics menacing her lately, She's even considering quitting her job (in a manner of speaking –6 months unpaid leave). Some manner of injustice done onto her and her colleagues by a new 'Director'. An iron-fisted, despotic [is this correct?] sort of egotistical beast. Idk. All the speak I seem to ever hear these days are bad news, or complaints. I cannot bring myself to humour any of them. In the car, I have taken to an unholy habit of listening to music on earphones like some fourteen year old. I am a disgrace. I cannot listen to all this speak about the terrible conditions of the world. It all sounds like self-absorbed chatter. And I hate myself for it.
It is hard at this age to get along with parents. Then again, this is a constant. I am a terrible person. I become extremely reticent and impatient at times that I forget to be kind. Mother snaps at me when this happens. And I apologize soon after (give and take 20 minutes of self-flagellation).
It is simply the whole trying to be an 'adult' while still living at home with your parents, I suspect. They still see me as a child needing lecturing and brisk commands. Sometimes I find myself unable to be 'good' and obedient is all.
I am writing instead of typing and obnoxiously posting this on my blog (& deleting it soon after like I usually do) because something's wrong with my laptop. So this has turned into a rambling letter.
Many things. Many still, that I can write of. But it's maghrib now. I should go.
Pensieve & missing you,
p.s. My laptop started working again. So I typed my letter out and added some feckless italics. A measly fan-nish tribute after the style of Salinger's F&Z. All commentary in [these parentheses] are added on as I typed it out too. I'll make no allusions to my current state of mind. We'll see if I get to write another one before you come home. I don't think I could write while you're home.