citrus (eryn) wrote in theinnocent,
citrus
eryn
theinnocent

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Chapt. 3

(totally skipping the part where I tell Jonny I'm over him and let go of whatever we were building up. This will make no sense to someone who doesn't know the story, but screw them. I like this part better. I'll write the part that goes before this one later.)

.....

Cue on the Mariah Carey ballad, right? Not exactly. For the rest of my highschool days at least I believed that it had been my best mistake. That letting him go, letting him be afraid of us was the worst choice I could have made. Choices are choices. You can't change the outcome once you've taken the steps, so why dwell on it? I know damned well Jonny and I would have never become the friends we did if we had continued with our relationship as it stood then. I would have never stepped out and had the ability to discover myself. I depended on him for too much, and I see that now. In his arms was the only time I would stop doubting myself and let my hesitations slide away, but that's not entirely healthy. I don't view it as a fuck-up now, just a decision. We make thousands of decisions everyday, right or left? To step into the office building or just keep walking? We choose our words and our actions with every person and situation to pass us by, who's to say where the mistakes lay in-between all of those choices. It is human habit to call the choices where we would have preferred diffrent outcomes mistakes.
So, I watched him walk away. I let him go, let him fly. In my young wisdom, I figured if things were really meant to be, he would come back to me. If he was truly in love with me, he would see the lies behind my words and the truth beyond my actions. I was wrong, at least about the last part. But it was what I believed. So, as it stood, I was alone again. I had three good friends who made music, while I sat and observed it. But, it was enough to keep me going. Enough to have faith in the week that Sunday would be waiting for me. It was when I could stare at Jonny with fingers flying over the delicate frets of his guitar without regrets. I could comment on what I pretended to know, organize sheets of lyrics, and watch my friends create art.
Reflecting, Sunday was my salvation. I could have never made it through the first semester at Columbia River High without it. High school was this dark abyss where I could once again recreate my image, start over with a fresh canvas and paint myself up to be the person I wanted to be. Going in with expectations like that, you'll never be satisfied. High school is like rubbing the tip of your finger over a swollen tastebud, it hurts just enough to notice. It like when you cut your nails too short and all you can do is wait for them to grow back. For that dull pain to stop. It's something everyone has to go through, social skills are sharpened, teeth are grinded down, routines and hard work morals are set into your bones. By the time you graduate it's in their high hopes they have put together a good human. Someone who can balance a budget and do strings of algebraic equasions when the occasion arrises. Someone who can tell you exactly how to write a five paragraph essay and what elements make up your table salt. The person will have a career planned out and a list of good colleges to seek and conquer. God knows that no teenager can put together an original thought without the pushing and prodding of a dozen eccentric middle aged teachers. It is with this definition of high school that made me leave River. I wanted the freedom to spread my wings in my youth and pick up a degree at the same time. I was not a 4.0 academic scholar nor your athletic wonder girl. I was in that common rift in-between, and not being able to find my place there, I seeked a new location. Be hold, the Vancouver School of Arts and Academics.
Somewhere in me was an artist screaming to get out. I used to draw when I was a little girl, but had long since given up the drive to improve it. I had written horrible poetry on my own since about the 5th grade, but most of it was weak and flimsy. It was freshman year that whatever had been building up in me, crested and exploded into a million lines all splattered in 4 notebooks I now refer to as the freshman chronicles. Every drip of emotion that ran through me was filtered into those pages. Anyone that hurt me, made me smile, made me think has a place in those stretched out sentences. I broke down and for the first time in my life, I just let it all go. I let it pour and drizzle and flood out in every direction I could. And when it wasn't enough, I would make other people read it and tell me what they thought.
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