Curiously, Caitlin.

Just dont give up on me. ♫

I knew by merely dialing your number what you’re response would be. I knew even before hearing your automatic voicemail greet my call. I knew just as soon as I saw your name flash across the screen of my phone as it read “New txt message.” No, I cant. [insert excuse here]. Atleast you could have added a bit of sincerity in your reply.

I thought maybe this birthday would be different between you & me. Maybe this year you would actually want to celebrate with me. But I was proved wrong. Perhaps, I should just leave it alone. I tried. Tried to maintain this hallucination of a friendship. I gave it one last shot. I just have to accept that it is never going to be what it was. It is never going to be they way I want it to be. Whether I want to admit it or not, the moment you start caring an ounce for me is the moment Hell freezes over.

And now the trembling won’t stop. Oh dear.

little-fighter:

I’m lying on my bed, staring at the ceiling, listening to the emotive, electrifying guitar solo in Black Sabbath’s song “Killing Yourself to Live”. You think I’m crazy and baby, I know that it’s true…..

My thoughts are then interrupted by my vibrating cell phone, announcing the only text that I had gotten all day. Texting to me seems superficial; my sarcasm goes unnoticed, my body language untold and my expressive eyes are concealed.

Undeterred by my disdain for communicating through text, I got up and checked my phone. I had received a text message from my friend Nancy that read, “U wanna chill?”

I sighed. I knew what “chillin’” with them entailed- getting high and bitching about the other seemingly happy people around us, especially celebrities. Don’t get me wrong, I don’t completely condemn drugs, especially when I admire authors such as William S. Burroughs and musicians such as Jimi Hendrix. However, I don’t want to just “chill”, I want to contemplate and converse about everything meaningful and beautiful. This however, is a concept my so-called friends have trouble grasping.

In their defense it is quite peculiar that I find consolation in the novels such as The Bell Jar rather than Twilight; or that I find men such as James Dean more enthralling than the Jonas Brothers; or that I find Turner Classic Movies to be more entertaining than MTV. Perhaps I am an old soul trapped in a teenage body. The 21^st century often seems cold, aloof and superficial, contrasting with my warm, passionate persona. I wish technology could be advanced enough for me to time warp to better days. Most people just call me an idealist. After all, I’m only 18, so how could I possibly know that my life would be better in the 1960’s, based on a few biased books and movies?

Anyways, I digress. I respectfully decline the invite seeing as my bottle of red wine and copy of Jack Kerouac’s On the Road would keep me better company tonight. Just after I poured myself a glass of wine and opened the book, my mother came barging into my room, demanding that I go out tonight, her reasoning being that “pretty girls should not spend their life locked in their room”. I know she wants what is best for me, but to her being alone is equivalent to being lonely. She fails to realize that I can find solace in my solitude. To me, this is much more fulfilling than engaging in petty conversation with shallow people. However, to avoid argument with my mother, I decided to go to the bar to “chill” with others.

I sent a detailed text to Nancy explaining why I had changed my mind and proceeded to get ready. I decided to take my big purse and stash my bottle of wine and a copy of On the Road. My phone then alerted me of a new text by playing the upbeat chorus of The Who’s “My Generation”. I glanced at my phone and did receive a new text that said “K”. Rolling my eyes at this succinct reply, I continued to sing the song to myself. I hope I die before I get old…

I opt to drive myself to the bar, seeing as my so-called friends would probably be either drunk or high or a combination of both. Rummaging through my music, I settle on Black Flag to provide my driving tunes. I put in the CD, turn up the volume and immerse myself in the music as I make my way to the bar. Society’s arms of control, rise above, we’re gonna rise above…

To me there is something relaxing and comforting about driving at night. I drive at 80 in a 65 mph zone, but for some reason I don’t really care. Perhaps reading about Dean Moriarty’s life in the fast lane is rubbing off on me. I smile and hit the gas pedal. I soon arrive at the bar and take out my fake ID to show the guy at the door. I ask how he‘s doing; he nods and doesn’t reply, but lets me in. I begin to wonder if he even looked at the picture on the ID and realized that it wasn’t me. It gets me thinking about the thousands of people that we come in contact with in our lifetime; and how we could pass someone on the street who shares the same ideals and dreams as us; but we would never take the chance to get to know them because we are too caught up in the mechanical motions of everyday life.

Someone bellowing my name interrupts my train of thought. I see a group of really drunk, blathering people. I reluctantly sit down next to them, and make an honest attempt to be part of the conversation.

“Hell yeah Guinness!” Nancy exclaims.

“I’d love to backpack through Europe, embrace this wanderlust,” I say dreamily.

“You’re thinking crazy and you’re not even drunk!” Nancy says, laughing uncontrollably.

I think, therefore I am. Perhaps my crazy thoughts do make me an insane person, but I would much rather be “mad to live, mad to talk, mad to be saved” than a mere casualty of society. I pull out my book and get lost in the world of Kerouac, because the characters of Sal and Dean seem much more interesting than the people I come into contact with in my own life.

I lose my concentration when I feel a tap on my shoulder. I turn around and see a rather good-looking man in his mid-twenties, sporting a black leather jacket.

“ I’m sorry to intrude, but are you reading Kerouac? His novel changed my life!” he says enthusiastically. I show him the cover. “Right. Anyways, how are you?” he asks earnestly. “I’m Blake, by the way. What’s your name?”

“Estelle,” I say, and I smile, because I can tell by his expressive green eyes that he really cares. Usually when people ask me how I am or what my name is, they don’t really care; they’re just asking for the sake of keeping the conversation going. “Teenage angst has paid off well, and now I’m bored and old,” I say.

“Ah, what’s your Nirvana?” he asks.

“I haven’t found it yet,” I say disappointedly.

“For me, I find Nirvana in the road, traveling and exploring.”

I stare at him in awe. It’s like he lives my dream life. We sit there together until we both become tired of the loud, pointless banter around us. We leave the bar to find someplace better to talk more. It feels like hours, but in the best possible way.

“I can’t believe it’s December and it’s still warm here,” I sigh.

“Well, that’s Southern California for you,” he says.

“Yes, but sometimes I wish I could just get away. I’ve been stuck in suburbia my whole life!”

“Estelle, let’s just get in my car and drive north till it’s cold,” says Blake, turning towards me with bright eyes.

I can tell he’s serious, and despite the fact that the idea seems wild, I think that I’m ready to begin a new chapter in my life. I take a deep breath and look back at him. “Let’s.”

You… need to publish a novel. You’re a wonderful writer! I loved reading this. (:

Thankyou for the follow back :)