Packing

Today I was supposed to pack to go to my dad's house... but I didn't. I was alone. My sister had left for the movies, and my mom was at work. Alone to my own devices.

For a while, I've been fantasizing about some terrible event which would make leaving my house neccessary -- an apocalypse, the death of a parent, a fire, a devastating earthquake, a mad man hunting me down... I think about what I would pack, what I would need... what I would leave behind. I begin planning my movements around my room, timing them, deciding what needed to be left behind to save my life.

Today, I acted on that fantasy. Man Man wailing in the background, I set about packing as quickly and carefully as I could. How many pairs of socks would I need? Which books would I bring? Would I take my boots, or running shoes? My breath was actually quickened, as if the threat were real.

Halfway through packing, I paused, realizing how much I truly wanted to run away -- from everything -- and never come back.

I wasn't trying to be overly dramatic. I don't have it hard, or anything. I have a roof over me, food... I'm not lacking anything. Except perhaps adventure. That's where the running away comes in. I want to meet new people, run away to some place exotic or unknown -- where I could use a different name and have a different life. Maybe I would come back. Just to see the chages. But I would surely leave again, just as soon as I came.

I was so tempted to actually do it -- to run. The adventure and the strangeness of it so enticing... but something stopped me. What would that do to my friends? Would my parents recover?

Too much of a gamble for me.

Plus et Plus, et Moin et Moin...

Life is essentially memory. If something is forgotten, it drops out of existence forever. Never to be found again. Especially personal memories. The secrets, kept in a hidden file cabinet somewhere in the back of your mind.

This is what scares me the most.

It isn't the idea of not knowing, it's the idea of losing forever. People, events, thoughts. Anything can live forever in a memory. Someone once said that a person remembered is never dead. When we forget, we lose those things.

That's why I write everything down. Dreams. Thoughts. Friends. Pneumonic devices just to know that some part of me will stay. I've watched my grandma's Alzheimer's develop from the beginning, when she needed a few seconds to remember my name. Now she can barely remember my grandfather -- calling him her dad -- or my dad and uncle -- calling them "that guy."

I don't want to forget.

At night, instead of trying to forget my day. I rewind and play it again, and again, and again... ad nauseum. Every word, every action, every thought triggered by the two. My only hope is that my mind will remain -- for as long as it can. My "sponge" as I call it, is drying out.

Introductions are in order... aren't they?

My friends say that if I were to write a book, people would read it. I'm not sure, however that a publisher would want to buy my book with the understanding that four high school students would be their only customers... no matter how great my grades in English are or were.

So to save myself time, money, and a bloody typewriter (anachronistic, yet appropriate), I think I'll just stick with a blog instead.

The only thing you need to know: I am a paranoid francophile (with an "E" so you know it's feminine -- HINT!) with a penchant for independent films and unattainable older boys (Like the follower, who will be explained in due time).

Due time is now!

High school weight training. Do you ever get the feeling someone is watching you in the mirror of your school weight room? I did -- so I started paying more attention to the faces in the reflection. There was one guy - a senior - practically perfect in every way. Smart, funny, nice. He was the star of the track team (but not the kind of jock you fantasize about hitting with your parents' car). He reminded me of a mouse -- the Cute Mouse, I used to call him.

ANYWAYS. I called him the Follower because I saw him everywhere in the hallways. It was almost like he was following me, but I secretly knew he wasn't because I was just the weird, mousey girl with four friends and all the answers. So, I decided to "actively seek". My friends found this quite entertaining, and helped me in my quest to capture him for my own. Our escapades included:

• Taking secret pictures in the lunch room, where he just happens to be in the frame


• Stealing his picture from the student of the month poster


• Getting him to sign our yearbook on the last week of school

But I only spoke to him once -- "Nice job on placing third in state," I said. "Thanks," he said. I did, however, manage to catch him looking at me a few times. When he left, I couldn't stand it.

I, who had only ever cried in public once before, broke down emotionally and wept for someone who didn't even know my name. A major loss of face for me. Especially when one of my friends came up to me later and told me he had heard I was crying (wanted to know why -- but only facetiously, being male).

So, that's the Follower. I find little things on the ground that remind me of him now and then, and I try to construe these random playing cards and soggy scraps of paper as fate, binding us together in some unwordly way. Sad, huh?

Still want to read? I think I'll try to post every day, and they won't be as depressing as this one.