“Brightside di Vita”
Something like this happens and you start making sense of fragments of your life that once were just unclear pictures: you say "Hi, I'm a literature major; I keep a secret blog. I'm a closet writer. The bulk of my writings are unseen and unheard of."
You realize that you have just revealed a secret of a secret blog to strangers--you suddenly hear noise and imaginably a grumbling of distant murmurs that sound like "hey, if that's a secret, then it's a secret no longer now!!!" In a split second you feel your brain simultaneously zapping in and out of reality as if the reality of your presence and of your having told the secret had just happened in dream state. All at once you ground yourself by pinching your arm--and when you notice the fresh henna on that arm that write "ITALIA," you then silently confirm consciousness and then start recalling every single bit of event that took place in the experience of being there and of having told a really stupid secret. And to make things more exciting, your self introduction brings you somewhere close to superspace. A boy beside you appears in limelight and says "I know you, huckleberryjane."
Incidentally, your blog's name is also "huckleberryjane;" and so you turn red. This boy, your age, would be driving you home two hours after that, but nothing of that sort crosses your mind at that point, because you are still at a state of shock. You wonder how he knew you. And he actually lives near you, too, and you do not know that until after you ask if you could ride and after he brings you home that night. Your head, full of thoughts, is also unable to properly comprehend the blend of feeling poetry and feeling shrugged (to be explained). Yes, you were in an adult's writing workshop and the finest place to find interesting people you think you relate with. (You've always loved the atmosphere of being with adults. You can thrive in a kind of community, and so you think.)
You face him with a puzzled look on your face and ask, "How'd you know me?"
He would just laugh. He would laugh the best laugh of his life and with no inkling of your stark confusion at the moment. This is when you first catch fragments of your life along paths of your fractured memory--and you have no idea how those memories came about or why you still carry them with you after all this time. You just know that when something like that happens, naturalization comes after. You try to piece him into every conceivable place you've been to in your life and wonder where it was that you have really met him. High school? No. College? No. Summer camps? No. China study tour? No. Nothing rings a bell.
You ask him one more time. He reveals himself an old tutormate. Now how could you have not remembered, right?
You wouldn't. Of course you wouldn't. And even if you knew most of the people there by name, you barely talked to them. You barely talked to anyone in tutor, remember? You liked the company of your books; and your teachers made great friends.
Or at least not after all that you have been through with men.
To say the least, men have not always treated you well and you secretly have been longing for some kind of a breakthrough. You could name a few guys now: Promiscuity, Apathy, Cynic, Arrogance, and Narcissist.
You just couldn't care less. That night, you get his first name stuck in your head. The first thing you do when you get home is look him up on Facebook. Ah, Brightside di Vita. You've been Facebook friends with Brightside for nearly three years and you didn't even know. You slump on your bed in embarrassment and bury your face under pillows. You suddenly feel shrugged by the memories that keep coming. Brightside's high school friends--other men--hadn't been the nicest people to you. Basically, you've lived almost your entire teenage life feeling a kind of disdain for men. You've often dreamed of love and marrying, but fear always got in the way of that. You tell yourself not to worry, but your memory has this strange habit of wanting to remember sad things over and over again: that you've had a hurtful past with men, and that you'll never get things easy with men because...you just can't.
Realization: so maybe the reason you barely talked to anyone in tutor is that. Your memory keeps bugging you. Oh wait, but there seems to be some kind of a discrepancy here. You talk too much. You couldn't have "not talked" to anyone. Of course you talked to people. You talked to everyone but Brightside and people from his school. Because they made fun of you. Because they called you ugly. Because they.
You feel even more shrugged when at last you wonder if Brightside were ever involved in that old affair. You hope not. No, Brightside's way too nice to hurt anyone; and you keep telling yourself that (1) because it's comforting to think so and (2) because you just really hope not.
Not when you're aching to somehow feel your life open up again.
You realize that you have just revealed a secret of a secret blog to strangers--you suddenly hear noise and imaginably a grumbling of distant murmurs that sound like "hey, if that's a secret, then it's a secret no longer now!!!" In a split second you feel your brain simultaneously zapping in and out of reality as if the reality of your presence and of your having told the secret had just happened in dream state. All at once you ground yourself by pinching your arm--and when you notice the fresh henna on that arm that write "ITALIA," you then silently confirm consciousness and then start recalling every single bit of event that took place in the experience of being there and of having told a really stupid secret. And to make things more exciting, your self introduction brings you somewhere close to superspace. A boy beside you appears in limelight and says "I know you, huckleberryjane."
Incidentally, your blog's name is also "huckleberryjane;" and so you turn red. This boy, your age, would be driving you home two hours after that, but nothing of that sort crosses your mind at that point, because you are still at a state of shock. You wonder how he knew you. And he actually lives near you, too, and you do not know that until after you ask if you could ride and after he brings you home that night. Your head, full of thoughts, is also unable to properly comprehend the blend of feeling poetry and feeling shrugged (to be explained). Yes, you were in an adult's writing workshop and the finest place to find interesting people you think you relate with. (You've always loved the atmosphere of being with adults. You can thrive in a kind of community, and so you think.)
You face him with a puzzled look on your face and ask, "How'd you know me?"
He would just laugh. He would laugh the best laugh of his life and with no inkling of your stark confusion at the moment. This is when you first catch fragments of your life along paths of your fractured memory--and you have no idea how those memories came about or why you still carry them with you after all this time. You just know that when something like that happens, naturalization comes after. You try to piece him into every conceivable place you've been to in your life and wonder where it was that you have really met him. High school? No. College? No. Summer camps? No. China study tour? No. Nothing rings a bell.
You ask him one more time. He reveals himself an old tutormate. Now how could you have not remembered, right?
You wouldn't. Of course you wouldn't. And even if you knew most of the people there by name, you barely talked to them. You barely talked to anyone in tutor, remember? You liked the company of your books; and your teachers made great friends.
Or at least not after all that you have been through with men.
To say the least, men have not always treated you well and you secretly have been longing for some kind of a breakthrough. You could name a few guys now: Promiscuity, Apathy, Cynic, Arrogance, and Narcissist.
You just couldn't care less. That night, you get his first name stuck in your head. The first thing you do when you get home is look him up on Facebook. Ah, Brightside di Vita. You've been Facebook friends with Brightside for nearly three years and you didn't even know. You slump on your bed in embarrassment and bury your face under pillows. You suddenly feel shrugged by the memories that keep coming. Brightside's high school friends--other men--hadn't been the nicest people to you. Basically, you've lived almost your entire teenage life feeling a kind of disdain for men. You've often dreamed of love and marrying, but fear always got in the way of that. You tell yourself not to worry, but your memory has this strange habit of wanting to remember sad things over and over again: that you've had a hurtful past with men, and that you'll never get things easy with men because...you just can't.
Realization: so maybe the reason you barely talked to anyone in tutor is that. Your memory keeps bugging you. Oh wait, but there seems to be some kind of a discrepancy here. You talk too much. You couldn't have "not talked" to anyone. Of course you talked to people. You talked to everyone but Brightside and people from his school. Because they made fun of you. Because they called you ugly. Because they.
You feel even more shrugged when at last you wonder if Brightside were ever involved in that old affair. You hope not. No, Brightside's way too nice to hurt anyone; and you keep telling yourself that (1) because it's comforting to think so and (2) because you just really hope not.
Not when you're aching to somehow feel your life open up again.
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