XyZspineZyX
07-03-2003, 01:31 AM
LOL, based on a very true story....Sigh. It's been fudged a bit for dramatic effect. It is after all, supposed to be fiction.
You know that feeling where you just start falling, and
then think, well why the hell not, nothing can go wrong now, and just keep falling... and then BAM! You suddenly realize there's a whole lot of NOTHING to fall into, or you hit reality hard smack in the face...? Yeah, that's my life and I'm finding it hard to function. Ok not just because of this situation, but because I really really really would like something good in my life right now. I need something to look forward to that isn't related to anything that I'm already doing, or not doing.
I could just go on and on and on. Mostly because I'm confused. I just want to know:
what the hell!!!!!!!!!!!!?
Grrr.
Sigh.
Sniff.
etc.
All of the above.
I'd only felt this once before. I mentioned my main two relationships, the one's that failed, tossing me into the pit of despair. Bettina was the first one. She was very beautiful, with a bright energetic personality. She was also crazy. I seem to fall for the crazy one's. Maybe because I'm crazy as well. At 17 years old, Bettina was already on the disability pension for schizophrenia. Yet, she wasn't actually disabled. A talented and aspiring actress armed with a cunning intellect, she was able to fake the symptoms of schizophrenia and get the required certification from doctors. Though sometimes I was left wondering if she actually did fake it.
As I said, Bettina was sexy. Very sexy. With an infectious personality that no one, absolutely no one, could resist. Every guy she ever met tried to pick her up, giving me great satisfaction when she obviously preferred to be with me. As attractive as she was, she had no interest in physical relationships. She only had sex once, comparing the experience to someone sticking a finger in her ear. I suggested that perhaps there was just no attraction between her and the man she was with, nor would he have known what he was doing. But to no avail. She did however enjoy my wandering hands sliding gently over her bare skin, giving her a sexual sensation she would never expand upon. You can already imagine the initial friction between us. Even kissing was forbidden. Her fear of hepatitis C, and every other disease she ever heard about, was almost paranoiac. We had fun however, in various other ways.
Bettina's main interest was travel, which is how we spent most of our time together. Jumping in some cheap old car that was barely running, then driving across the country as far as we could go. We would sleep on the roadside and eat a diet of raw vegetables and bread. Only natural and organic foods were good enough for Bettina, although I was much less fussy. She loved little jars of mushy baby food, because it was organic and full of yummy goodness. It was quite peculiar to walk into a late night supermarket and only buying twenty jars of baby food. We didn't have much money, so luxuries were few. I would depend on my meager savings, while Bettina waited for her fortnightly pay. However, most of Bettina's pension was siphoned away by her avaricious brother. He lived with her father in the suburbs where she called home. She idolized him, and his way of life, having imitated many of his beliefs and ideology. A philosopher of varying persuasions, who would transgress his ideology every few weeks in a rapid palpitation of exciting theories and beliefs. He had access to her banking account, and was able to withdraw funds at a whim, usually to finance his own travel or living expenses. Therefore, Bettina never knew how much money she actually had. Sometimes she had enough, while often she had nothing. This created quite a moral burden, as we had agreed early on that both of us would pay for ourselves. Independence was one of her most crucial convictions, yet Bettina still had very close links to her brother. As I mentioned briefly, he was even crazier than she was, but that's an entirely different story.
The boot of the car was usually filled with two sleeping bags, a guitar, camping equipment and a handful of ragged clothing. One skirt, one T-shirt, one ragged jumper. The only things she had two of were socks. She also had an aversion to shoes, and refused to wear them unless we went into the bush. Even then, she would only wear a pair of old sneakers she once found in an alley. She was defiantly (I deliberately use that word), not the poster girl of modern fashion. She believed that buying new clothes was a tragic waste of precious money. She preferred to spend it on experiences, not possessions. This belief was solely based on her idolization of her brother. He not only gave her the idea of exploiting the government welfare system, but also gave Bettina her anti-materialistic sentiment. 'Only have what you need.' She repeated what he said. 'Don't get caught up in materialistic possessions, you'll end up wasting your life. Acquire nothing and live!' Before I met her, they had a small ritual in the back yard where she burnt almost everything she owned. His belief in this matter soon evolved into new ideals, yet hers remained.
I had all my things packed in my hiking bag, everything that I would need. During that time of my life I truly learnt how to pack light, and eventually, ultra light. Three or four week trips with just a sleeping bag, daypack, and five hundred in the bank. Sleeping by the sides of roads, in the back of a rented station wagon or on the beach. Nope, didn't need much to be happy in those days. She was everything I could need. I felt at home wherever we were. No matter what outback town or remote bushland valley we found ourselves in, that is where I belonged. Most people spend their entire lives looking for 'home' and I found it in her. In wherever she chose to be. Even where I was living, you're typical definition of 'home', I didn't feel right. It was just some place I kept my stuff. I needed to be with Bettina, and when I finally was, I felt totally at ease. Yet those long stretches without her. Ever get homesick. That gut wrenching sickness that can only be cured by returning to wherever it is you need to be? Try six months of that while surrounded by what would normally be considered home, not knowing when you would see her again, if ever.
Out on the road, Bettina would often borrow my clothes if hers were wet or dirty, which was quite often the case. Running through the middle of beaten Ladas or rented Fords, we crammed her surfboard. The only other possession besides her guitar that she refused to let go. She adored surfing, but was only still learning. Cruising along the coast, we'd find secluded beaches where she could follow her passion. I'd sit on the beach and watch her for hours, intoxicated by her beauty and her joy. For both of us, it seemed to be a spiritual awakening. Surfing seemed a religious experience, one I could never understand, yet I'm sure every surfer can attest to. The greatest problem about this whole experience didn't seem to bother her. But everything, absolutely everything inside the car, would eventually be covered in sand. A frustrating, horrible, carpet of crunchy grit. Even the food! I did the best I could to keep things clean. That included us. I'd find a Laundromat to finally clean a pile of filthy clothes, or under the cover of night, slip into the shower block in a caravan park. Yet where I'd try and find somewhere private, or even suitable, to take care of my needs, Bettina would just do it where she happened to be at the time.
Imagine for a moment that you are stuck in morning peak hour traffic. The car is burning like a sauna, the hot sun blazing high above. The traffic doesn't seem to move, instead, it appears to drift backwards. The radio is so boring it evokes thoughts of suicide. You barely got any sleep last night and ran out of coffee. Your tie is choking you and your shirt is drenched in sweat. It's another boring Monday morning that you hate beyond belief. Life just sucks. You peel your hands from the steering wheel and wipe your brow.
Trapped behind a red light, you look to your left at the nearby service station. A battered little four-wheel drive is parked beside the gas hose and water tap. An attractive 17-year-old girl poses alluringly beside the car. She's dressed in rags, yet beautiful like a goddess. She is Undine. She is Rhiannon. She is Helen of Troy. A mythical beauty of ancient legend, basking in the rays of the sun. You catch yourself gazing at her beauty. To your utter shock, she peels the clinging rags from her sweat-glazed body. She reveals the soft tender skin of her thin, almost bony frame. All she's wearing now are cheap K-Mart panties that seem far too small. They're ragged, the floral pattern fading and the cloth worn through. She appears a beggar, yet a queen. She turns the tap, releasing a cold flow of sparkling water, splashing off the hard concrete that her bare feet kiss. The light jumps green, but you don't move. That doesn't matter because no-body else does either.
You gasp as her tender fingers slip inside the lining of her panties. Quick blink. Your heart racing in anticipation and disbelief. It jumps as your wicked dream comes tumbling to reality. She pulls down those faded cotton panties, slipping them out from under her bare feet. Your jaw drops. Slim nubile body glistening in the heat of the sun, teasing your gaze. She leans down to soak her rags in the sparkle of ethereal splendor. A shriek of mischievous sensuality, as her skin is touched by the cool water. You gag. She hangs the cloth dripping from the gas hose, then gets up again. Your eyes are glued to this goddess as she rounds the vehicle out of view, appearing again behind, then searching for something.
Wake! Horns blare behind you. Go! Go! But can't they see what's going on? You creep forward to escape the sensory overflow, but the light jumps red and you're caught staring again. She returns to the tap with a small bottle of hotel shampoo. Kneeling by the tap, she begins to wash her flowing hair under the cold stream. She shudders as bare flesh explodes with goose bumps, and shrieks in delight.
I'd be sitting on the bonnet of the car the whole time, pretending nothing unusual was going on. And to me, nothing unusual was. I had become used to her blasé approach to the public. She wasn't concerned about prying eyes clutching at her naked flesh. She believed that since no one knew who she was, whatever they thought about her didn't matter. If they enjoyed looking at her, good for them. You have to admire that, as most of us still cannot grasp the concept of complete freedom from judgement, especially me. She spent the next few minutes trying to find a plastic bag. Emerging triumphantly from the back of the car. She wrapped up her wet clothes and dumped them on the back seat; eventually she slipping on her T-shirt then jumped in front.
I'm quite certain that for the next three or four days, office workers milling around the coffee machine in euphoric delight, were telling plenty of stories. I could only imagine the embellishments they create. Perhaps this is where the legends of old are born. From small wonderful moments in someone's life that grow into mythological heritage.
Bettina seemed to provide plenty of these stories. While traveling through a major city at two in the morning, she decided to bathe in a public fountain in the park. She stripped off and jumped straight in. Soon enough two horse-mounted police officers interrupted her, thinking the situation rather amusing. Avoiding arrest, Bettina was given the suggestion that fountains may not be the best place to take a bath. She was not new to arrest either. Her greatest pride was being charged once under the Federal Maritime act. Apparently this was a rare feat and one she was most proud of. She had stowed away in an overnight ferry, getting caught while trying to disembark. She was due to appear in court but was adamant she wasn't going to bother. Bettina had also been arrested for breaking into an abandoned industrial estate late one evening, running around in the dark on a mission of exploration. Adventure was her primary goal, regardless of the legal consequences.
We met while she was living in the same city, and often went on her adventures without letting me know. She didn't have a mobile phone so it was more than difficult to get hold of her. Basically I just had to wait until she got back, and that could literally take months.
After she moved back home, I would visit as often as I could. I was working in an office at the time, pushing papers in a banking firm. Yeah, that's something worth talking about. Stick that on the resume to waste a paragraph. Two [BEEPING] years of my life summed up by one simple little horrible word. Pointless.
I'd finish in the office at about five, quickly get changed and dump my suit under the desk. I'd race to the coach terminal while eating some junk food on the way. We leave at about six, spend twelve hours on the bus and arrive at about six on Saturday morning. Thirty-six hours later I'm back on the coach. Another twelve hours with no leg room and unable to sleep, then arrive back at six on Monday morning. I'd wander around the city for three hours before getting to work at nine. I was tired, hungry, dirty and loving every minute.
Coming down to visit her was always worth it. We didn't always do very much but that was never the point. I just needed to be with her, if only for my own selfish reasons. I'd just sit in her room, listening to music as she lay on her bed reading stories written by a busker that sat outside the train station on weekends. This had inspired her to write a story about poor chocolate fairies that got gobbled up by evil children, then one day fight back. She called it "The chocolate avenger!" It was rather entertaining, if nothing else. Painting, poetry, music, dancing, and acting: She did it all, and she did it all with gross mediocrity. Far from being talented with anything but acting, she did have passion for creativity and a wild imagination to back it up. Just a gentle reminder though that she was, after all, completely insane.
Daisies growing in the rain.
Hear the children play
As the adults go insane
Can't they see they've lost another day?
(Working away!)
Fear pushing them down to the ground,
Whispers of dreams make no sound.
Sweet devotion drowning in an ocean.
But the dolphins come and see,
That your worries are none.
As I look at the sky I wonder why
I had a tear in my eye.
The sun has shone, shown, shun,
My troubles are gone.
Contemplation can be a frustration.
Living with imagination,
makes living a fascination.
Or even.
There was a little pumpkin pie,
Who really wanted to fly,
So he was thrown high in the air,
By a lovely Teddy Bear.
But pumpkin pie fell down quite fast
And hit the ground in a big fat blast!
Now pumpkin pie was all over the street,
And teddy bear began to eat.
See! You may be warm, you may be sweet,
You may be really fab to eat,
But if you choose to fly real high.
.Use a parachute.
So yes, Bettina was wild fun and very liberated from the world that engulfs the rest of us. Yet this had its problems. As you have noticed, Bettina had the grand incapacity of being entirely self-absorbed. She cared about no one and nothing but herself. Her whole view on life was to have fun and experience as much of the world as she could. I thought that was a great philosophy, except the fact that I was completely ignored because of it. If I hadn't put in the effort to be with her, I wouldn't have, yet she did love spending time with me. She came alive when I came to visit and was constantly telling me how much she preferred to hang out with me than anyone else. Strangely however, if I wasn't there, then it didn't seem to matter. She would head off on another adventure forgetting I even existed. The unrequited emotional energy I injected, and the frustration of not being able to act upon such blatant sexual behavior, eventually forced me to abandon the relationship. A gut wrenching decision that continues to haunt me. Memories of our emotional connection still make me sick with depression. I choose to ignore her as best I can, and she doesn't seem to mind.
I flicked though the photos buried deep inside my room. I'd hidden them away to avoid such melancholy sessions of reminiscence. Her smiling face stared at me. Where was she now, what was she doing? Who was she with? Her joy and spirit rose from those images, reaching out to suffocate me. I had to get out of here.
http://webhome.idirect.com/~nkirv/ASHcom%205%20alone3%20copy.jpg
Shut up when you talk to me.
You know that feeling where you just start falling, and
then think, well why the hell not, nothing can go wrong now, and just keep falling... and then BAM! You suddenly realize there's a whole lot of NOTHING to fall into, or you hit reality hard smack in the face...? Yeah, that's my life and I'm finding it hard to function. Ok not just because of this situation, but because I really really really would like something good in my life right now. I need something to look forward to that isn't related to anything that I'm already doing, or not doing.
I could just go on and on and on. Mostly because I'm confused. I just want to know:
what the hell!!!!!!!!!!!!?
Grrr.
Sigh.
Sniff.
etc.
All of the above.
I'd only felt this once before. I mentioned my main two relationships, the one's that failed, tossing me into the pit of despair. Bettina was the first one. She was very beautiful, with a bright energetic personality. She was also crazy. I seem to fall for the crazy one's. Maybe because I'm crazy as well. At 17 years old, Bettina was already on the disability pension for schizophrenia. Yet, she wasn't actually disabled. A talented and aspiring actress armed with a cunning intellect, she was able to fake the symptoms of schizophrenia and get the required certification from doctors. Though sometimes I was left wondering if she actually did fake it.
As I said, Bettina was sexy. Very sexy. With an infectious personality that no one, absolutely no one, could resist. Every guy she ever met tried to pick her up, giving me great satisfaction when she obviously preferred to be with me. As attractive as she was, she had no interest in physical relationships. She only had sex once, comparing the experience to someone sticking a finger in her ear. I suggested that perhaps there was just no attraction between her and the man she was with, nor would he have known what he was doing. But to no avail. She did however enjoy my wandering hands sliding gently over her bare skin, giving her a sexual sensation she would never expand upon. You can already imagine the initial friction between us. Even kissing was forbidden. Her fear of hepatitis C, and every other disease she ever heard about, was almost paranoiac. We had fun however, in various other ways.
Bettina's main interest was travel, which is how we spent most of our time together. Jumping in some cheap old car that was barely running, then driving across the country as far as we could go. We would sleep on the roadside and eat a diet of raw vegetables and bread. Only natural and organic foods were good enough for Bettina, although I was much less fussy. She loved little jars of mushy baby food, because it was organic and full of yummy goodness. It was quite peculiar to walk into a late night supermarket and only buying twenty jars of baby food. We didn't have much money, so luxuries were few. I would depend on my meager savings, while Bettina waited for her fortnightly pay. However, most of Bettina's pension was siphoned away by her avaricious brother. He lived with her father in the suburbs where she called home. She idolized him, and his way of life, having imitated many of his beliefs and ideology. A philosopher of varying persuasions, who would transgress his ideology every few weeks in a rapid palpitation of exciting theories and beliefs. He had access to her banking account, and was able to withdraw funds at a whim, usually to finance his own travel or living expenses. Therefore, Bettina never knew how much money she actually had. Sometimes she had enough, while often she had nothing. This created quite a moral burden, as we had agreed early on that both of us would pay for ourselves. Independence was one of her most crucial convictions, yet Bettina still had very close links to her brother. As I mentioned briefly, he was even crazier than she was, but that's an entirely different story.
The boot of the car was usually filled with two sleeping bags, a guitar, camping equipment and a handful of ragged clothing. One skirt, one T-shirt, one ragged jumper. The only things she had two of were socks. She also had an aversion to shoes, and refused to wear them unless we went into the bush. Even then, she would only wear a pair of old sneakers she once found in an alley. She was defiantly (I deliberately use that word), not the poster girl of modern fashion. She believed that buying new clothes was a tragic waste of precious money. She preferred to spend it on experiences, not possessions. This belief was solely based on her idolization of her brother. He not only gave her the idea of exploiting the government welfare system, but also gave Bettina her anti-materialistic sentiment. 'Only have what you need.' She repeated what he said. 'Don't get caught up in materialistic possessions, you'll end up wasting your life. Acquire nothing and live!' Before I met her, they had a small ritual in the back yard where she burnt almost everything she owned. His belief in this matter soon evolved into new ideals, yet hers remained.
I had all my things packed in my hiking bag, everything that I would need. During that time of my life I truly learnt how to pack light, and eventually, ultra light. Three or four week trips with just a sleeping bag, daypack, and five hundred in the bank. Sleeping by the sides of roads, in the back of a rented station wagon or on the beach. Nope, didn't need much to be happy in those days. She was everything I could need. I felt at home wherever we were. No matter what outback town or remote bushland valley we found ourselves in, that is where I belonged. Most people spend their entire lives looking for 'home' and I found it in her. In wherever she chose to be. Even where I was living, you're typical definition of 'home', I didn't feel right. It was just some place I kept my stuff. I needed to be with Bettina, and when I finally was, I felt totally at ease. Yet those long stretches without her. Ever get homesick. That gut wrenching sickness that can only be cured by returning to wherever it is you need to be? Try six months of that while surrounded by what would normally be considered home, not knowing when you would see her again, if ever.
Out on the road, Bettina would often borrow my clothes if hers were wet or dirty, which was quite often the case. Running through the middle of beaten Ladas or rented Fords, we crammed her surfboard. The only other possession besides her guitar that she refused to let go. She adored surfing, but was only still learning. Cruising along the coast, we'd find secluded beaches where she could follow her passion. I'd sit on the beach and watch her for hours, intoxicated by her beauty and her joy. For both of us, it seemed to be a spiritual awakening. Surfing seemed a religious experience, one I could never understand, yet I'm sure every surfer can attest to. The greatest problem about this whole experience didn't seem to bother her. But everything, absolutely everything inside the car, would eventually be covered in sand. A frustrating, horrible, carpet of crunchy grit. Even the food! I did the best I could to keep things clean. That included us. I'd find a Laundromat to finally clean a pile of filthy clothes, or under the cover of night, slip into the shower block in a caravan park. Yet where I'd try and find somewhere private, or even suitable, to take care of my needs, Bettina would just do it where she happened to be at the time.
Imagine for a moment that you are stuck in morning peak hour traffic. The car is burning like a sauna, the hot sun blazing high above. The traffic doesn't seem to move, instead, it appears to drift backwards. The radio is so boring it evokes thoughts of suicide. You barely got any sleep last night and ran out of coffee. Your tie is choking you and your shirt is drenched in sweat. It's another boring Monday morning that you hate beyond belief. Life just sucks. You peel your hands from the steering wheel and wipe your brow.
Trapped behind a red light, you look to your left at the nearby service station. A battered little four-wheel drive is parked beside the gas hose and water tap. An attractive 17-year-old girl poses alluringly beside the car. She's dressed in rags, yet beautiful like a goddess. She is Undine. She is Rhiannon. She is Helen of Troy. A mythical beauty of ancient legend, basking in the rays of the sun. You catch yourself gazing at her beauty. To your utter shock, she peels the clinging rags from her sweat-glazed body. She reveals the soft tender skin of her thin, almost bony frame. All she's wearing now are cheap K-Mart panties that seem far too small. They're ragged, the floral pattern fading and the cloth worn through. She appears a beggar, yet a queen. She turns the tap, releasing a cold flow of sparkling water, splashing off the hard concrete that her bare feet kiss. The light jumps green, but you don't move. That doesn't matter because no-body else does either.
You gasp as her tender fingers slip inside the lining of her panties. Quick blink. Your heart racing in anticipation and disbelief. It jumps as your wicked dream comes tumbling to reality. She pulls down those faded cotton panties, slipping them out from under her bare feet. Your jaw drops. Slim nubile body glistening in the heat of the sun, teasing your gaze. She leans down to soak her rags in the sparkle of ethereal splendor. A shriek of mischievous sensuality, as her skin is touched by the cool water. You gag. She hangs the cloth dripping from the gas hose, then gets up again. Your eyes are glued to this goddess as she rounds the vehicle out of view, appearing again behind, then searching for something.
Wake! Horns blare behind you. Go! Go! But can't they see what's going on? You creep forward to escape the sensory overflow, but the light jumps red and you're caught staring again. She returns to the tap with a small bottle of hotel shampoo. Kneeling by the tap, she begins to wash her flowing hair under the cold stream. She shudders as bare flesh explodes with goose bumps, and shrieks in delight.
I'd be sitting on the bonnet of the car the whole time, pretending nothing unusual was going on. And to me, nothing unusual was. I had become used to her blasé approach to the public. She wasn't concerned about prying eyes clutching at her naked flesh. She believed that since no one knew who she was, whatever they thought about her didn't matter. If they enjoyed looking at her, good for them. You have to admire that, as most of us still cannot grasp the concept of complete freedom from judgement, especially me. She spent the next few minutes trying to find a plastic bag. Emerging triumphantly from the back of the car. She wrapped up her wet clothes and dumped them on the back seat; eventually she slipping on her T-shirt then jumped in front.
I'm quite certain that for the next three or four days, office workers milling around the coffee machine in euphoric delight, were telling plenty of stories. I could only imagine the embellishments they create. Perhaps this is where the legends of old are born. From small wonderful moments in someone's life that grow into mythological heritage.
Bettina seemed to provide plenty of these stories. While traveling through a major city at two in the morning, she decided to bathe in a public fountain in the park. She stripped off and jumped straight in. Soon enough two horse-mounted police officers interrupted her, thinking the situation rather amusing. Avoiding arrest, Bettina was given the suggestion that fountains may not be the best place to take a bath. She was not new to arrest either. Her greatest pride was being charged once under the Federal Maritime act. Apparently this was a rare feat and one she was most proud of. She had stowed away in an overnight ferry, getting caught while trying to disembark. She was due to appear in court but was adamant she wasn't going to bother. Bettina had also been arrested for breaking into an abandoned industrial estate late one evening, running around in the dark on a mission of exploration. Adventure was her primary goal, regardless of the legal consequences.
We met while she was living in the same city, and often went on her adventures without letting me know. She didn't have a mobile phone so it was more than difficult to get hold of her. Basically I just had to wait until she got back, and that could literally take months.
After she moved back home, I would visit as often as I could. I was working in an office at the time, pushing papers in a banking firm. Yeah, that's something worth talking about. Stick that on the resume to waste a paragraph. Two [BEEPING] years of my life summed up by one simple little horrible word. Pointless.
I'd finish in the office at about five, quickly get changed and dump my suit under the desk. I'd race to the coach terminal while eating some junk food on the way. We leave at about six, spend twelve hours on the bus and arrive at about six on Saturday morning. Thirty-six hours later I'm back on the coach. Another twelve hours with no leg room and unable to sleep, then arrive back at six on Monday morning. I'd wander around the city for three hours before getting to work at nine. I was tired, hungry, dirty and loving every minute.
Coming down to visit her was always worth it. We didn't always do very much but that was never the point. I just needed to be with her, if only for my own selfish reasons. I'd just sit in her room, listening to music as she lay on her bed reading stories written by a busker that sat outside the train station on weekends. This had inspired her to write a story about poor chocolate fairies that got gobbled up by evil children, then one day fight back. She called it "The chocolate avenger!" It was rather entertaining, if nothing else. Painting, poetry, music, dancing, and acting: She did it all, and she did it all with gross mediocrity. Far from being talented with anything but acting, she did have passion for creativity and a wild imagination to back it up. Just a gentle reminder though that she was, after all, completely insane.
Daisies growing in the rain.
Hear the children play
As the adults go insane
Can't they see they've lost another day?
(Working away!)
Fear pushing them down to the ground,
Whispers of dreams make no sound.
Sweet devotion drowning in an ocean.
But the dolphins come and see,
That your worries are none.
As I look at the sky I wonder why
I had a tear in my eye.
The sun has shone, shown, shun,
My troubles are gone.
Contemplation can be a frustration.
Living with imagination,
makes living a fascination.
Or even.
There was a little pumpkin pie,
Who really wanted to fly,
So he was thrown high in the air,
By a lovely Teddy Bear.
But pumpkin pie fell down quite fast
And hit the ground in a big fat blast!
Now pumpkin pie was all over the street,
And teddy bear began to eat.
See! You may be warm, you may be sweet,
You may be really fab to eat,
But if you choose to fly real high.
.Use a parachute.
So yes, Bettina was wild fun and very liberated from the world that engulfs the rest of us. Yet this had its problems. As you have noticed, Bettina had the grand incapacity of being entirely self-absorbed. She cared about no one and nothing but herself. Her whole view on life was to have fun and experience as much of the world as she could. I thought that was a great philosophy, except the fact that I was completely ignored because of it. If I hadn't put in the effort to be with her, I wouldn't have, yet she did love spending time with me. She came alive when I came to visit and was constantly telling me how much she preferred to hang out with me than anyone else. Strangely however, if I wasn't there, then it didn't seem to matter. She would head off on another adventure forgetting I even existed. The unrequited emotional energy I injected, and the frustration of not being able to act upon such blatant sexual behavior, eventually forced me to abandon the relationship. A gut wrenching decision that continues to haunt me. Memories of our emotional connection still make me sick with depression. I choose to ignore her as best I can, and she doesn't seem to mind.
I flicked though the photos buried deep inside my room. I'd hidden them away to avoid such melancholy sessions of reminiscence. Her smiling face stared at me. Where was she now, what was she doing? Who was she with? Her joy and spirit rose from those images, reaching out to suffocate me. I had to get out of here.
http://webhome.idirect.com/~nkirv/ASHcom%205%20alone3%20copy.jpg
Shut up when you talk to me.