I always suck at endings. I don’t cry; I just freak out. Maren might recall this from such events as January. I’m sure there are countless other examples.
Our last group trip was this weekend. I can now associate with almost anyone on this trip, yet I have been isolating myself, mostly because Mike and Greg seem to be spending more time together. My mind works in retarded ways. Sitting in the hostel alone and reading makes me moody, and hanging out with people doesn’t. Regardless, I still take fifty minute walks into Exeter in the rain trying to figure out life and why my thought processes are so ridiculous. (Eros, c’est la vie! Eros, c’est la vie! Nothing matters! Let go! Let go! Give up! Want nothing!)
I have never been good with mantras.
I feel cheated that the definition of obsession is an unwanted, intense emotion. Love is more or less an intense emotion. Therefore, not wanting to love someone is obsession. It should really be the opposite.
Sunday we drove around Dartmoor. I was approached by a wild pony (Patti Smith was hiding in the bushes). I climbed a Tor. I fell down a crevice. I turned a letter to Bridget into a paper airplane (Jet!) and felt bad when I lost it. Litter is unfound paper airplanes.
Today many kids went surfing, and others went to Tintagel. I went to Tintagel, the legendary castle of King Arthur. Such legends have little proof, but Merlin’s Cave on the beach is fucking cool. I stood on some more cliffs, thought of Emma, thought of ending it, and decided to stop being so shell fish. Lots of sea, grass, and cliffs in Europe. I played on a beach in Bude with Jess and Jill. We tried to make a sand man, but the tide came in before we finished the legs. I shall have pictures of life as a beach in a week or so. Courtesy wal-mart photo lab. *shudder*
I purchased Battle Royale (the novel) in Exeter and finished it today. I want to blame the translation for the poor writing… maybe it was technique since it was 15 year old thought processes. “Oh Shinji, we’re going to die, but who do you have a crush on?!” *giggle giggle BLAM*
The similes in that book are god awful; they rise in literary esteem like a bowling ball doesn’t.
Jess is going to Hawaii next year, and that makes me sad. I’ll still have Jill, and we’ll always have memoir!
And we’ll always have Fred…
p.s. I had six pots of clotted cream tea in a small village in Dartmoor on Sunday. Scones, I love you. I had some coffee too. And a mental breakdown (not really, it just sounded more literary).
p.p.s. Some scary American and British dude just knocked on my door. One of them was in this room two years ago? He showed me where the bench press was… uhm. Right.