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Kielo
Senior Member

since 2002-02-11

Posts 1109

0 posted 2002-11-19 12:04 PM

The look of her, the smell of her, the knowledge of what the feel of her should be… it is driving me mad…

I’m not sure when I began associating touch with love. I seem to have a very great many misconceptions of love. However, I make the association. I need to be touched, every now and then, and I need to touch, to show that I care. It is natural for me, a need. I seem to have a very great many odd needs, however unfortunate it may be.

Despite my tendency to prattle, there was an intention in writing this. To return to her… It is the one thing that irritates me about her, this hatred of touch. No, it is more than a simple irritation; I think it may be more like a disease. It festers in my heart, and grows, and nibbles away at my sanity the more time I spend with her. Unfortunately I cannot seem to stop spending time with her. For one, I have nowhere else to go, and for another, she is a very good friend of mine, and no fault of mine is going to pull us apart.

So it is in this predicament that I faced walking in the rain with her after school, in the opposite direction from where I ought to go, where I needed to go, very soon. I shrugged to myself, reasoning that it was better to simply stop torturing myself for one day, and go see to the work I had to do before the teacher I needed to see left. I said goodbye at the door to the outside.

I ought to note that I never say goodbye at the door. If I see her after school, I walk with her, no matter the weather, at least a block or two. Because of this, the look on her face was something between surprise, shock, and possibly confusion and hurt. “You’re not walking with me?” she asked. I didn’t have the willpower to decide twice to leave, so I walked with her anyway, all the while feeling a compelling need to reach out to her, to run fingers through her hair… She has beautiful hair. I resisted though, knowing how much she hates to be touched, and suffered through the shortest walk I could manage without appearing suspicious again.

As I walked away she called after me, a goodbye. I was running. I was running away, and it felt like I was going so slowly, because I couldn’t actually run, for fear she would ask why later. I turned back, and gave a half-hearted wave. I kept walking, wanting to run, to flee. My poor tormented mind was having fits.

I managed to live. I suppose it is likely that I will manage to continue doing so for quite a long time. If everyday is like this, though, I hope it goes by quickly.

Skyfire