Monday, 9:38 p.m.
Weight: Only my trainer knows and she’s not telling. Not even me.
Cigarettes: None. One.
Food: Ha! We’ll be here all day.
I’m reading a new old book. the perks of being a wallflower by Stephen Chboksy. The lack of capital letters in the title is his choice, not mine.
It’s not really an adults book even though that’s where I found it. But quite frankly, it’s not about the book. I’m not even sure I could tell you the storyline other than it’s a thirteen year old shy kid starting high school and discovering a side of life he doesn’t comprehend.
It’s about the writing. Chbosky has a way of putting together sentences. Of playing with words and creating images out of obscure descriptions, but you know there has never been a more perfect way of saying it.
So, this is my life. And I want you to know that I am both happy and sad and I am still trying to figure out how that could be.
He has, I do believe, shot to the top of my list of favourite writers.
- Stephen Chbosky, the perks of being a wallflower.
- J.K. Rowling, Harry Potter. (Because I will never outgrow it).
- John Green, Looking for Alaska.
- Capt_PicKLes, A Bullet Laced In Anger. (He blogs).
- Danny Wallace, Charlotte Street.
Sometimes it’s about the story. And sometimes, it’s about the way you tell it.
And in that moment, I swear we were infinite.
I’m not sure what it means yet. I’ll let you know when I’ve figured it out.
Today was. Hard. That’s not the right word exactly. I had coffee with him and I realised, not for the first time, that when the conversation steers in the direction of his life at home my heart beats just a bit faster and eye contact suddenly becomes less appealing.
The remnants of love?
Perhaps. I think though, that it is just a reminder of a betrayal by the one person I never thought would.
Trust. It’s a tricky thing.