My mouth remains shut.
I look at you, but still
My mouth remains shut.
I try to open it,
Release some of what I have to say,
But my needle of worry stops me
And sews my lips tighter.
The thread is too thick
And the needle too strong,
And I fear I may never be able
To say anything to you.
People often regret what they say.
I regret what I didn’t say.
June has always been an incredible month for me. The weather is warm, and so are the people. Every new beginning is at its prime. And anything that has to end at that time always ends happily, regardless of the circumstance. Looked back on with positive feeling, and always remembered in sunlit memories. Nothing can compare with it. It is its own separate entity; abstract, yet full of realness. Longed for while it is absent; enjoyed while it is present. Yet still the knowing of how it will end so soon is at the back of the mind, and it creates a sort of sadness within.
My longing was becoming more and more. It was November, and although Christmas was near, I still felt blank towards the rest of winter. I had my birthday to look forward to, though really the only part that made it worthwhile was the fact that summer would be nearer. I felt that the next summer was promising something; something that I did not know what, but something all the same. I knew it would be good. It would be better than all the other summers. And the fact that I knew this, or at least felt it, made waiting all the more irritating.
I had never been one who was happy to wait. I wanted everything as soon as I could get it. Waiting seemed pointless; a loss of time. I often found myself not wanting something if I had waited for it too long. But this, this I would want, regardless of how long I had to wait. I would have just preferred to get it straight away.
I looked outside. It wasn’t even snowing. Winter couldn’t even bring its only highlight forward. Instead, it was cold, and windy, and raining so hard that even the strongest of umbrellas couldn’t resist. Exactly how I didn’t like it. There was no possible way that I could have enjoyed what was out there. Instead I was stuck inside, in front of a fire that wasn’t quite warm enough, with a book that wasn’t quite good enough. I had several layers of clothing on, yet still felt cold.
Long live winter, I thought.
The cold did have its uses though. It was distracting me. Distracting me from that same recurring image. Of him. I couldn’t get him out of my mind. Still. For nearly two years, it had been him there, whether I’d admitted it or not. But I still hadn’t got a response. He didn’t even know. We weren’t even close friends. Yet still, there was something there, something that I wanted. I yearned for it, but I couldn’t have it. Only two other people knew about my feelings for him; I was pretty sure they could both see the empty horizon in front of me as I did. There was no one there, just me, and an everlasting series of roads, paths and turnings. None of them got where I wanted them to – they all returned to the same spot, right at the beginning. I was getting frustrated. None of the paths went where I wanted them to go. I wasn’t getting anywhere. I was still alone, and he was still far away.
Stupid winter. If I hadn’t thought of the cold, I wouldn’t be thinking of him. Maybe there is no use for this weather after all.
I would be seeing him tomorrow though. And the next four days after that. I probably wouldn’t speak to him. But I would still see him. And that was enough, for now. Though I knew soon enough that I would need more than that. I was already starting to pine for him when he wasn’t there. I’d wait after school just to see if he would appear from inside the building, on his way home. He never did though. He was hard to keep track of, always somewhere different. And never with the rest of them . He didn’t follow the same guidelines as everyone else. He could do what he felt like, and it was okay. And I wanted in on that. I wanted to be the one doing crazy, obscure things with him. Or just being with him. It wouldn’t matter what we did, just as long as I could hear him, feel him, see him.
I looked outside again. It was getting dark. So early as well. Another thing I didn’t like about winter. I preferred to have the light. I loved the dark, but dark has its place in time, and it just didn’t feel right entering my vision so early. Dark should be at midnight, when the air is still and silent, and nothing else is moving. When I can sit out of my window and watch the stars, without being disturbed by rain or wind. I couldn’t do that in winter though. I would freeze. And get wet. And possibly even get blown out of my window. And there was nothing good about any of those options, nothing at all. All I could do was sit inside, curled up inside a blanket and hope to god that it would cheer up soon.
When it was 9pm I finally decided to move. I had finished my book, though could not remember what it was about. I was slightly warmer now, and had an unexplained cup of tea by my side. I picked it up, wondering how I managed to miss such obvious things. Even my mother coming in to give the cup to me. She must have done; there was no other way that it could have got there. Yet in my mind, I had been alone for quite some time. Though that would not have worked. I had the rest of the family in my house. I was in the living room. No one can be alone for that long in the main room of the house, unless everyone else is out. I could hear them though, in the back room, and upstairs. So I had only my lack of sense to blame.
No wonder I’m not getting anywhere. I’m probably missing all the signs because I’m too wrapped up in my own world to notice anything.
The tea was lukewarm. I still drank it, though I could not say that I enjoyed it. There was nothing else to do. I could go upstairs and sleep, but it was too early. I didn’t particularly feel like communicating with anyone, face to face or virtually. I had no more books to read, I couldn’t go outside, and I had no creative desire as such. I was just a blank canvas, waiting to be painted on. I needed something to happen, something that would create colour and shape, pattern and tone.
I closed my eyes, thinking of what could possibly happen to change my state of mind. I could maybe talk to him tomorrow. Start a conversation about nothing in particular, and see where it ended up. Or I could do what I always did – go to talk, and then become overly shy all of a sudden and back away, leaving so many wasted opportunities. I guess I was to blame for my lack of getting anywhere. I always felt so...under pressure. Like if I did something wrong, I would mess everything up. I couldn’t even bring myself to talk to him, in case I ran out of words, or said something stupid, and changed his perception of me forever. Of course, he’d shrug it off. Like any other person would. But I was still avoiding it, even though I knew nothing bad could come of it.
What is my problem? Why will I not talk? If I actually did something, then I might get somewhere. I can’t keep on waiting forever, waiting for him to act. He might not even feel like I do. And then he won’t act. So I need to do something. But how?
Sighing, I removed the blanket from myself, put my now empty cup on the side, and stood up. I went to go upstairs, leaving everything else where it was. I needed to distract myself, just for a second. So I could focus on something else for a change. It was unhealthy to be so obsessed with something, particularly something I didn’t have. Something that technically didn’t exist. I was just leading myself further and further over this horizon, yet not getting any closer to my final goal.
Upstairs I had more comfort. A better blanket, longer silence, and distractions. My book of poetry I was writing lay on the side. A lot of my poems were to do with him. Naturally. What else could I write about? There was nothing worth putting down on paper. Except him. It was like a diary to me, my poetry book. I lay down on my bed and started to read through it, thinking of him all the while. If he could read them, maybe he would understand. Maybe he would act upon them. But, I couldn’t just go up to him and read him my poetry in the hope that he would suddenly like me. I needed to take it slow.
I would talk to him tomorrow. I had made up my mind; it was going to happen. I would start off casually, and then continue it so that he was interested, and wanted to carry on. I would get him attention, and he would talk to me every day after that. I wasn’t going to sit around like I had always done before. I would actually do something. And if it didn’t work, I would try again. This was my only hope of getting what I wanted.