I love Chels. She's so fanciful and eclectic that just reading her blog makes me want to go out and buy cream-coloured sweaters flecked with sage and brown, and take myself down to a cafe and drink a cappucino. And she owes me an e-mail. Just a not-so-subtle hint there, lovey.

Tomorrow is prom. I'll run round the house madly, hunting up dust balls usually invisible to me in an effort to keep my parents from complaining that I'm gone all day, breathing in the sweetness of the morning and trying to ignore that odd little ache in my soul. Then I'll run over to Adam's small brick house with its trim patch of lawn, and smile stiffly at my date until we realize that it's all right to say things to each other. When I get home, Alise will come over and curl my hair into delicate little ringlets that frame my face like tendrils of a flower. I'll put on the mask of an Edwardian geisha, my face all pale and perfect, with softly blushing cheeks, and lips so warm and red that they'll hint at stolen kisses in the past-- but of course, it's all an illusion. The romantic glitter that we all prize so much is a lie, and tomorrow I'll return to being plain, but that night I'll be the girl I long to be in the depths of my heart. My tafetta skirt will rustle softly as we play croquet on the grass and wait for pictures. I'll feel the chill of early spring against my satin skin and shiver, but I'll decline the offer of a jacket. Then we'll gather into forced poses for our pictures, with me trying to hide my awkward smile and look the picture of innocent beauty.

Dinner comes next, after a drive in the winding roads of unknown neighborhoods, at Royce's house. It's a beautiful house, and we'll have candlelight. On those granite counters will sit offerings of food to accompany all the gloss of silver and china. The dinner guests will sit awkwardly, backs straight to do justice to those beautiful dresses and tuxedos. Soft ripples of polite conversation will be the rule, but occasionally Jeff will say something random and clever and we'll all laugh-- me most of all, because by now some part of me wants desperately to be at home, reading Jane Austen. Another part of me will be peering through at the scene wistfully between her fingers, watching the undercurrents of friendship and love that run through the guests. Part of me will watched, detached and beautifully describing the entire night. And the rest of me will simply be enjoyed the experience of unique conformity to the social demands.

The dance follows, of course. We stand around, waiting for people to slowly come into themselves and start to dance. Eventually a slow song that we all hate comes on, but by then we're so awkward, we'll take our date's hand and begin to sway to the music. We switch dates a few times to relive ourselves of the prospect of eye contact and conversation, but mostly we stay together. I'll wonder if I ought to say more, and if that strange, puzzled look from that I guy I used to like means something, but I'll know it won't. The last song will play, and we'll let go of our date. Partly thankful, and yet something inside of us is rejoicing at the contact.

The car ride home will be filled with light, chatty conversation-- none of us are worried about doorstep scenes, so all that's left is curtain call. A few smiles-- some thank yous-- and then, goodnight.

I was skimming a quotes site while importing Teeka's CD's, and I found this poem. If I ever have the time (which is doubtful, considering) I'm going to write a Moulin Rouge fic about this.

Don't stand beside my grave and weep,
For I'm not there, I do not sleep,
I am a thousand winds that blow,
I am the diamond's glint on snow,
I am the sunlight on ripened grain,
I am the gentle autumn's rain.

When you awaken in morning's hush,
I am the swift uplifting rush,
of quiet birds in circle flight,
I am soft stars that shine at night,
Don't stand beside my grave and cry,
I am not there. I did not die.

I've heard that before, and it's still as lovely as when I first did.

The world seems faded, like someone threw a grey wash over everything. I feel trapped, and lost, and so, so lonely. The world spins around me, and I try to walk at my own pace to the soft music I hear, and I just get trampled. I just want someone to hold me. I want to feel the wind brushing through my hair as we walk together in the golden-grained fields of wheat.

It hurts when I see couples walking around together. When I see guys I've dated flirting with their current girlfriends, I can't help but wonder why that's not me standing there by him. The odd thing, is, of course, that I'd rather not date any of them. But still. . . all I want is someone to care about this odd, plain girl with childlike hands and dark eyes.

Such is life, and I guess it all evens out in the end. Besides, prom is on Saturday, and I have my dress, and I'm going to curl my hair and actually wear makeup.

Do you know what I really want to do? I want it to rain softly outside, so I can run out and dance in it, and feel the water trickling down my face and lips, and taste the sweetness of it. I want to feel the paradox of sun and rain mingling in a pale grey sky. I love the smell of rain, how it wraps itself around me and slicks down my hair. I want to tilt my head back and drink in the beauty of it all.

Today I took myself and my AP History review book to my front yard, and read while lying on the ground. The sunlight was almost pure white, and hurt my eyes for the first few minutes, like most beauty does, but then I grew accustomed to it. I wonder if one could grow used to the presence of God? The grass whispered against my bare feet, sending tiny senasations through them. The cedar chips in the flower beds were fragrant and wet, and tiny insects scattered underneath them. Occasionally, an chilly breath of air passed through, but for the most part, it was a quessentially perfect spring afternoon.

I love Enya. It's the sort of music one ought to be listening to on a spring afternoon. It evokes pictures of pastoral meadows filled with rippling grasses and wildflowers. . . waterfalls and drops of water that glitter like jewels in the light. In a strange way, it makes me want to cry for all the beauty of the poetry my mind brings to mind at the first strains of music that fill the room. Or dance so gracefully, like the smooth glass sculptures that sit in glory in the silent art museums, with my arms and legs moving together in tranquil harmony. Chinese characters and the sweet bells of the brass windchimes my mother keeps out in the garden.

every summer sun
every winter evening
every spring to come
every autumn leaving
you don't need a reason
let it all go on and on

You will have a strong love relationship that will not last long but the memories will last forever.

I got this in the “horoscope” forward Madi sent me, and it made me pause for a brief moment of contemplation. Would I like that? That’s the stuff great love stories are made of, but . . .wouldn’t it destroy you to lose that one person? But I could see that happening to me. I don’t like prosaic realities. I am, first and foremost, a dreamer. Love has to fade sometime, and perhaps. . . this is totally irrelevant. I’m single, have been single for over a year, and am considering myself lucky that a friend asked me to my senior prom.

Mum’s baking chocolate chip cookies, and my hair is in ringlets. I feel like I’m a small girl again, waiting for the treats to be cool enough so I could take my first bite. I always liked them too hot so they fell apart in my hand. I could roll the cookie up into a doughy ball, just a mouthful of pastry and sugar and chocolate. Just enough to burn my tongue a little bit. I was always impatient like that.

I’m going to write a children’s book. I was talking with my dad at supper tonight, and he suggested the premise. “Belinda Builds a Box.” I think it will work. More on that later, right now I’ve just got the basic idea sketched out.

Photography is my new delight. I went out for a brief walk on Sunday with our digital camera and took close-ups of nature. Deep red tulips against the cedar background. Mossy tendrils curling on the soil. The slim, pale trunks of birch trees. And my sister smiling at me from where she lounged in the hammock. I want to go up into the mountains to photogaph them so some faint echo of their beauty is perserved in my albums.

I also rented Les Miserables with Liam Neeson and Geoffery Rush on Sunday. That movie is absolutely fantastic-- it always makes me fall in love with Liam Neeson. It’s such a melancholy story, but so beautiful. . .Victor Hugo makes me just ache inside. I don’t think I could ever write like that-- and to be frank, I don’t think I’d ever want to. I’m a messenger of beauty and love more than truth and freedom.

Do you know what else I’m newly addicted to? Cliques. Check them out in my little link column. Aren’t they superb?

After all, there are few things nicer than sitting in your room, scribbling in your journal (or typing, as the case may be) with a bouquet of lilies for company. The chilly spring wind blows in lightly through the half-open windows, and the scent of lemon mingles with the flowers. “Rose” from Titanic is playing softly on my stereo, and the sweet wistfulness of the melody tugs plaintively at my heart. I can identify with that music. There’s an instinctual well of feeling in my heart that cries kindred to the song. It makes me think of changing paths, of dreams realized . . . and love.

Sometimes I let my mind wander idly over to the idea of falling in love-- really in love, the sort of beautiful, beautiful love that people share in stories. It must be terrifying to be able to give yourself so wholly to another person, knowing that if they choose to leave, your entire world will be in ruins around you. Regular caring and affection and desire comes with enough fear as it is. I don’t know if I could bear to lose someone that was my soulmate.

Of course, musings like that would be more helpful if I did have a soulmate around.

I’ve been working on my writing-- my real writing, not my fanfic (for as dearly as I love it, it’s just a hobby) and I’m starting to really realize just how steep this path is. It’s a solitary path as well, and crowded with all the thorns the crown of ambition holds. When L.M. Montgomery wrote about the rocky Alpine Path, I don’t think I ever. . . saw how hard it was, really. I can do it, though. I know I can. I have some talent-- not genius, but enough to rightfully worship my goddess. I wonder about the sacrifices she’ll demand I lay at her feet. But I’m willing to pay the price to share what’s in my heart.

I don’t know why I want to be a writer. I only know I have to be one.