Monday, 8 August 2011

No matter how still I stand, life moves on.

So I think I'm a zombie.

I must have this stupid vacant expression on my face all the time, maybe my mouth hangs open a bit. People look at me weird. I'm not being dramatic, I normally have a remote grasp on my emotional composure. Even after fits and outbursts I finally get a grip and.. well, that's it - get a grip. Not this time.

Thank you everyone, for comforting words, for cake, for phone calls.
I reckon I'll be as good as...

(you can be when you uncontrollably relive your memories, the stupid things that had both us rolling around and crying with laughter, the first time I tried to straighten her mad "not very curly, not really straight" hair, playing cards, dancing about in the kitchen to the Fugees at her mum's while you made cups of tea, realising with a mad flurry of panic that the sun was rising on the beach after the party and we couldn't find our sunglasses, wanting to throw the telly remote at the little kids 'cause they just wouldn't shut up, running away from the creepy sleazy Spanish dudes when we weren't interested, the constant near misses on our mopeds of which we never understood the real danger, swapping clothes and never giving them back, singing along to the Pulp Fiction soundtrack, the huge bender we went on in Fuengirola, working at the Hipodromo horse racing track as waitresses, sitting in the bar in Comares, chilling by the pool in Bena, and always just a short five minutes walk through the dusty rocky countryside away)...

... as good as new? Maybe not. But I'll be able to remember these moments with pride instead of loss in time.

Here it is then, the point to my story today.
I've had a coming-of-age epiphany. We're all taking our lives for granted. My family, my friends, MY SELF. I love you all. I don't care if you've ever said anything to annoy me, or if I drive you mad. Life would be boring if we were all the same. I think what I'm trying to say is I'm glad of everyone in my life.

Especially those who have cake.

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