m e m o r y | lala
Sept 26, 2017 15:46:44 GMT -5
Post by D6f Carmen Cantelou [aza] on Sept 26, 2017 15:46:44 GMT -5
Hendrix gave me this book today. I don't see myself as the diary type, but, here I am, being just another one of those girls that writes her feelings down in some shoddy old book. I think this old thing has been used before; there are doodles in the front. Probably used to belong to Hendrix, but alas, it is mine now.
Don't people usually name their diaries? I don't know. I don't seem like that type of person, I'm the diary type, but I'm not in that deep. At least, not yet.
I imagine I'll probably find myself looking back at these awkward few pages when I'm thirty and have children who are old enough to look after themselves. Except, I really can't see myself as a parent. Doesn't the thought of having a child seem so strange? Something that is part you and part someone else; it's a lot to comprehend. Having something get put inside you and then grow in your stomach—it is supposed to be human but it sounds so very alien. But, I do think it would be nice to have something to care for, something to call your own and something to bring you and your lover closer together. This is me I'm writing about, though, I'll probably be one of those people who just has a hundred or so rats and calls them her children. Real babies? I just don't see it.
One thing I do know though—if I ever do end up pregnant, I'll love it. Since no one but me is going to read this, I'm going to write down the things people don't really know. I was given up. They didn't want me, and by that logic, I shouldn't want them. But I do—blood is one thing in life you can't choose and to not know what runs through my veins makes me feel alone. Isolated. Raised with headstrong values, I know that there is a possibility I could find out who I really am, but the odds aren't really in my favour. When I was little, I'd fantasise about who my parents could be: famous people from the Capitol, beautiful people who lost me somehow. I used to hope that one day, they would pick me up and I'd feel at home finally. It never happened. I think I was about 10 when I came to the conclusion that they're probably dead in a ditch somewhere.
I digress. I'm good at going off on tangents.
Point is: I don't want anyone to experience that. If I ever do end up pregnant, I will be everything I didn't have. And I know that right now, these scribbles are just empty words which amount to nothing more than some sort of silent promise concealed within the wet pages of a diary, but when the time comes, these words will niggle away at me. I'll know what I wrote and I won't forget it. That moment will be when the silent promise becomes a scream; I'll never go back on my word after that. People deserve better, right? People deserve a good life, a proper one—a free one.
I could write for hours about freedom, but it is getting late. I'll write again soon when I actually have something to write about and I'm not just writing words for the sake of filling a blank page. Until then, book.