NotebookToday, I was cleaning up my room, packing my stuff to go somewhere for a while. I am an artist, the mess of my room largely consists of discarded painting and drawings. Also, my room and closet hold one of the most frightening collection of notebooks one will ever see. Most are from school, some are just spiral bound or composition notebooks i've kept to scribble down doodles. I wager there to be over a hundred lying around in there.
As I moved a pile from around my bed to the closet, I noticed something. Shoved behind some books on the top shelf was a blue notebook. I set the ones I had in my hands, into the box. I carefully rescued it from being wedged between the wall and a photo album (without causing a massive book-avalanche which was a surprising success). I recognized it immediately. A blue spiral bound notebook. Seemingly normal, but it felt as though it weighed a ton in my hands.
See...when I fell in love for the first time, I kept a record of it--naturally. I was pretty young so it was mostly just rough sketches of him. His face. his hands. It was odd flipping back through it, seeing him captured in his young form. I was shot into the past as if by catapult. I wrote him letters. I wrote pages about this new feeling. The new pain, longing, burning, feeling. As if infinity had fit itself into my chest. There were spots where the ink was runny from where my tears had landed. Back then, I could actually cry.
It feels really really strange to look back on those pages. I knew i was doomed to fail even then. Back before he left me and I went down into depression. I knew deep down that something was going to go wrong. Why didn't I stop myself? Oh, well, it was my first go. I didn't have brakes. I just shot myself into love. I never once looked up, until it was too late. I let myself be carried in this riptide, so far out to sea that I drowned.
I've already said goodbye to my hopes of him loving me. I've gotten over my addiction of him, And I don't want that thing in my house. I don't want to pick it up again. I wonder if I should walk to his house here in the middle of the night and just hand it to him. Tell him he should figure out something to do with it. Then leave him to discover how truly in love i was. Maybe then he might feel remorse, realization. Something. Anything? But of course if he tried to come to me, I'd ignore him like he did with me. But of course he might just snicker to himself and throw it away. Or feel embarrassed for me and hide it somewhere.
I just wish I could forget it.