Lovers should be tied together - September 3rd (Part II complete)

3rd September 20031

Seated on the train. Should it be surprising that my situation now is not unlike it was in my first year? Full of anticipation, wondering what the school year will bring. Some of the naivety has worn off, but worryingly there remains a portion of myself that longs for the year to be different, to be better. Not that the years thus far have been miserable, they haven’t, they just seem to be bare. The memories are colourless and fuse together, they blur past in a constant stream, merging and blending with another until my whole education seems to fade into inexistence. I doubt I could identify a single definable moment. My still childish thoughts wonder if this year colour will be injected and whether it is me who needs to be poised with the needle. 2

The chatter of excited children filters into my compartment and I am irritated for their blithering interrupts my thoughts, but I’m also strangely comforted; their voices offer company without being intrusive. My summer involved a lot of isolation. All my seasons involve a lot of isolation. Mother and Father were out on business, staying in France. Not a problem but after a certain amount of time you crave the sound of the human voice and even the merest whisper can seem like a caress. Though I do enjoy the sounds, I do not wish to be interrupted, I do not need those words to be directed at me to be soothed by them.3

Though, while the voices of people may be soothing, I find the creatures themselves nauseating. Their vapid faces are devoid of anything unique, all wishing to be exactly the same but in their own ,slightly individual, quirky little way. They strut around, believing themselves to be the almighty, the all-powerful, the everything, so consumed by their own arrogance that they almost drown in it. They swarm around the sweetness of the new trend and the chance to fit in, to be at one with the masses. Their ultimate ambition is to become utterly indistinguishable from all others, to blend in so perfectly that nothing about them can be pulled apart. They believe that this will prevent mockery, I believe it earns it.4

AN :5

Funnily enough during these misanthropist rantings the compartment door opened. In walked a girl, Mary Woolsten (don’t worry, you’ll hear more about her later; dark hair, dark eyes, fairly small). She attempted to instigate a conversation, which I recall went something like this:6

Mary: (Unnaturally bright, faux friendliness) Hi Matthew!7

Matthew: (Blank stare, utterly surprised and more than slightly appalled)8

Mary: (Faltering, loosing confidence) Hello?9

Matthew: (In shock)…Hello….10

Mary: (gaining confidence, probably relieved at getting a reaction, no matter how reluctant) Did you have a good summer?11

Matthew: (Abrupt) Fine, thank you.12

Almost tangible silence, clearly expecting a reciprocal interrogation. 13

Mary: (At last recognising the awkward and ridiculous nature of the situation) I…erm…well, good. I’ll see you at school.14

And with that she fled from the compartment.15

I did not find this situation amusing at the time; anything that interrupted my serious and pertinent reflection (or however ‘serious and pertinent’ reflection can be when you’re 17) was enough to induce a fit of rage, however, on reflection….16

I hope, reader, that you are not surprised at my interruption of my own journal, I’m a perfectionist, I could never let it sit still. Oh I thought you knew me better than that by now!17

Later..18

In the dormitory. It seems remarkable that I have been away for over a month. Nothing has changed. The sheets, the cupboards, the draws, all the way I left them. I know it happens every year but I never fail to be disorientated by it. It’s like stepping into the past, like revisiting a distant memory that is still hazy and rough around the edges. But maybe I’m being overly analytical, my ‘room-mates’ don’t seem to have any problem. They swagger in with ease, throwing themselves down on mattresses laughing raucously. I roll my eyes.19

I share with 3 others. On the bed nearest to me is Aaron. Bloody huge. Too much time spent out playing Rugby. Aggressively heterosexual. I’m sure you know the type. Not the brightest either. Self-professed comic genius although the extent of his humour seems to be shouting ‘Oi Nancy boy!’ in my general direction. Cutting. It’s been comedy gold for 6 years now. He’s almost always escorted by a group of jeering lackeys and they seem to enjoy his winning sense of humour. Wonderful.20

Then there’s Jack. He thinks he’s something different. Hair dyed black, tight jeans, miserable expression. Oh he’s deep. Doesn’t really say much and doesn’t really seem to have a distinctive personality of his own but it doesn’t matter; he’s good-looking. I’ve seen hundreds like him before but I suppose he tries his best. In world where rebellion is a form of conformity what is there to do.21

On the bed furthest from me is Mark. He’s the exception, he’s a nice Catholic boy. Very quiet. He stammers and stutters when addressed by the others, his face flushing a dark pink. Out of them he’s the one I like most. He’s unobtrusive, respects privacy. He sits alone and reads, muttering slightly under his breath. I’ve heard his parent s are extremely strict, the proper right-wing Catholics, borderline fundamentalist. There’s no doubt that he believes it all too. I envy that. I envy that solid belief, the unshakeable knowledge, the absolute certainty. There are times that I wish I could feel like that about something, anything. And so I let him be. Maybe I’m just trying to hedge my bets if he’s right ; I’ve always been a slippery little bastard.22

I lie in the dark writing this with only a soft glow from the bedside light to illuminate these pages. A moth flits around it, inexplicably drawn. I suppose to that small creature the light represents something of wondrous and immeasurable beauty. Its fascination will be its destruction in the end, what it is drawn to destroys it andI suppose that’s typical of people too. when we become consumed by something, obsessed with it and when it becomes our sole and primary focus that is when we cease to function as people. I suppose beauty is a siren, her song calls out to the desperate, calling them, luring them and for that one ephemeral moment the weary traveller cannot see anything apart from the breeze catching in her hair and the plump fullness of her crimson mouth. Her beauty is so ethereal, so complete, so captivating that the traveller never realises he has been destroyed.23