thoughts at 3.19a.m.

Aaaaaaaand I’m awake at 3.19 a.m. (or 0319 hours, if you prefer the 24-hour clock). I can’t get back to sleep… Woke up about 45 minutes ago only to find the power had gone down in half the house (it does that sometimes but usually only when overloaded; in this case, I don’t know why it happened). Now I’ve spent the time since then laying in bed, waiting for sleep to return, reading random posts on Facebook and wondering whether I should add someone. This particular someone had sent me a message through my page to ask why she can’t see my posts. As myself, I have very few public posts on there. I’ve been “forced” to add certain people (e.g. my dad, because… Well, he found me on Facebook, as well as some people from the hospital). Thus far, I have avoided having awkward confrontations about my posts by putting them into a list that has restricted access. I don’t need my dad or these peeps seeing my every single thought (which is probably why I have this blog, to be honest). Coming to think of it, the logical thing would be to not post those thoughts on Facebook at all… (Yay for late night conclusions?)

Anyway, this new Facebook friend (old family friend but new on Facebook) is a teacher at my old school. That was a world I had left behind when I’d deleted/deactivated my old profile. A world I had (and have) no interest in reconnecting with – my school, I mean. It wasn’t a terrible high school experience; I just never really felt like I fit in. Kind of like when we went to lunch in the posh part of Athens the other day- just to try it. The segregation was palplable, ‘rich’ people only. Certain brands, certain behaviours… Really didn’t fit in there. I could pretend; of course, I could. I’ve been taught to pretend; maybe that’s why I’ll never be a decent actor cause I’d been pretending for most of my life (so it feels, in retrospect). Not to say my parents don’t understand or support me, but their way of thinking is very different to mine, although they have tried to pass on a great deal. I don’t know if I need all that “hey, remeber me” shit from people I used to know (who thought they knew me).

Meanwhile, another friend of mine (my Italian teacher) accuses me of not trying hard enough to read poetry with the appropriate depth of feeling in my voice – and I know I can’t. I’ve accepted it. The voice in my head will never be more than that. I understand the weight and value of words, and the feeling with which they should be said. I just can’t translate it into my physical voice. It doesn’t work for me. I shall have to content myself with writing it all down (and hopefully making people understand in the process). Nothing wrong with that. It’s also why I have often been led to wonder whether the words “I love you” (in any language) are actually meant to sound so…so poor in comparison to the feeling that builds in my chest, that fills the very essence of my being with its warmth. Or am I just a coward who’s imagining things?

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