So you said you couldn't imagine me in tears

Well, you would've been surprised today.
I'm not criticising you or anything, and I'm not offended. I'm just commenting.

I'm not ashamed either. And Mum was right, when they bring the coffin in it is the hardest part.
It wasn't sobbing. I don't break down. I'm Scots at heart, and a Crozier.

But yes, I cry. Especially for my Nana.

Its not so good when you're the only one awake.
I'd love to feel that I'm the only one awake in the whole street, the whole world, of course, but that's different; right now I'm the only one in this house awake, or at least I think-hope-pray I am, because woe betide me if I wake my parents up with keyboard tapping.
If I was alone in the house - if it was my house, like I want it to be - then I'd have the radio on and the damn incense burning because everyone should have a New-Age moment when its twenty past midnight, and I'd run a bath and do yoga and drink hot chocolate and burn candles and dip my fingers in the wax.
Maybe I wouldn't have the radio on, because I want to listen to the rain.
But I would definitely be eating chocolate and I might be baking too, who knows, there might be raspberry and apple slice in the oven with brown sugar sprinkled on top.
But the radio would have to be on for a while at least, because I'd tune it to some 70s pop ballads and dance awfully around the kitchen. Right before hunting down every scented body cream someone gave me for my birthday and figuring out what it smells like if you put them all on together.
No-one should be serious after midnight.

Nightfall and romanticism

I know now, that nobody comes here, and nobody listens, so its all right again.
There was a while when I wasn't sure, only a short while but still, no-one likes to be uncertain, and the best part of two days spent looking at beautiful things on tumblr has made even my writing dreamish.

Oh well.
It's raining outside now, with the half-moon and the slippery road and the dark sky - god I love winter - and although nights like this are best when you aren't alone(or you properly are, with no-one else in the house so you can dance and make hot chocolate and take baths at three in the morning), I like them anyway.

Off you go then

Run? Hell no. I'm not running anywhere. Do you have any idea how much effort that would take? I'd have to get up, and like, get dressed, and think of somewhere to run to, and just... no.

You take your bomb and go. You're the one with the driver's license, after all.

Replacement

If it did have a private setting, this blog would have far more posts and far less editing, and my books wouldn't be very full at all.

Different

I guess I'm different from you.
You say you hide the pain, but for me, its hidden before I ever noticed it was there. In its place - and I know when I've hidden something from myself - there's just that almost-nothing, an emptiness that's never quite empty. It feels like a face kept carefully void of emotion, and I for the life of me cannot see past it.
So I have to lie awake and think, looking back, trying to figure out what it might have been.

That's why I write. Because though it hurts, the pain for me is better than the not-quite-nothingness, and writing helps to catch it before I lock it away from myself.  I never learnt to manage it alone.
The pain is newer, now, and the catching gets easier every time. And when it comes to figuring things out, I'll welcome the hurt because it proves I can feel what I thought I did. That isn't masochistic, is it?

Though if it was that important then you should've told me. Because you don't, you know, you act like its really nothing and just another whim and then you don't understand why I keep pushing. And I know maybe I should listen every time you say no, but if I did that we wouldn't be friends at all.

I checked, but blogger doesn't have a private setting.