[Honestly, what i want to do is, i want to give you a hug.]
[You need a company.]
[You're not alone. You're not the only one to have the kind of feelings.]
[It is a hard time, the teens. You're artistic and romantic and sensitive and, the process is much harder for people like that.]
[If i can show you the future in a magic crystal ball, you'll see that, once you hold on hard and get through it, the artistic part of you will flourish.]
[It is a kind of strength to cry, you know, to release and show your emotions.]
[Hold on hard.]
Boy, i cried. I really did, in front of the doctor, though i don't think all the problems are solved but she did soothed me. I'm always comforted by strangers, well not exactly in this case. Jesus Christ i ditched half day's lesson to get myself soothed and comforted and all.
But on the other hand i sorta felt worse. How the heck am i gonna [hold on hard]?
Never mind. I shoke that thought off. She said she'll contact me further on anyway. Let me just hold on something fragile and hurting which i don't wanna break, and pass the rest of the day.
[You never was and never will be, have you no shame don't you see me.]
我希望能成功解决自己的问题. 自舔伤口也算是一种疗法的话; if it's like that, then let me stop the bleeding tomorrow. Let me wake up; September's already way behind.
[Don't try to fix me I'm not broken!]
..that's what I said to you. What I meant was, I'll fix 'em myself.
I walk a lonely road
The only one that I have ever known
Don't know where it goes
But it's home to me and I walk alone
I walk this empty street
On the Boulevard of broken dreams
Where the city sleeps
And I'm the only one and I walk alone
I walk alone
I walk alone
I walk alone
I walk a
My shadow's the only one that walks beside me
My shallow heart's the only thing that's beating
Sometimes I wish some one up there will find me
Till then I walk alone
I'm walking down the line
That divides me somewhere in my mind
On the border line of the edge
And where I walk alone
Read between the lines
What's fucked up and everything's all right
Check my vital signs to know I'm still alive
And I walk alone
I walk alone
I walk alone
I walk alone
I walk a
My shadow's the only one that walks beside me
My shallow heart's the only thing that's beating
Sometimes I wish someone out there will find me
Till then I walk alone
....anyway i took another glance and drew the conclusion...f'ck the psychologistsXDDDDD i did have the symptoms but if i'm that ill-minded i would've ended up in the madhouse miles before i got to the computer and checked this out.
奈站在招待所房间里的床前望着一小方列托城区空无一物的天空. 夜空被地面的灯光漂白了, 露出一种钝重混浊的灰紫色.
她想起之前路过音像店时听到的Linkin Park的Crawling, 嘈杂中"These wounds they will not heal"曾被自己误听成"This world that will not heal".
Crawling in a world that will not heal, keeping my life and pride unbroken.
Impossible.
等吃到那一碗被评为"史上最佳夜宵"的水蛋后我总算承认让一个懂点厨艺的女孩子加入我们这个快乐小家庭即使会碰到尴尬事也是值得. 真的, 奈只要略显身手就让时不时端出焦炭的安无地自容. 多尼从来不会放过任何对安毒舌的机会: "看看人家, 就你这水平离当贤妻还远着呢." 我补踹一脚, "...更别提良母了."
安捂脸; 艾德给他顺毛, 忍不住一边哼"Long long way to go...".
The girl is sitting two rows in front of me. I actually know nothing more about her besides her name - Sylvia, called by the teachers; and we have never struck up a conversation except a murmur of thanks from me when she is giving out worksheets. That can't really be count as "conversation". Sylvia is pale with black, half-curly hair, which makes her look even paler. Her features are Russian like, almost impassive all the time. She's always silent. I cannot see exactly clear what color eyes she's got. I don't dare to, if you want to know the truth. What I could recognize is a thin layer of light, almost liquid, that floods over her irises; somehow makes them look misty. When she looks at you she is like looking at something beyond you. A kind of off-beat beauty.
It's weird that I seems to have a kind of obsession with the pale and dark-hair people. In this new school I'm now studying the 'colored' forms a circle and the 'milkbottles' - fair boys and blondies, I mean - forms another. Just a few anomalies; "anomaly", what a corny geo word. Maybe it's why I think the dark-haired pale stand out.
One of them is Nicholas sitting beside me in geo. We've got three or four lessons in common, which's rare because we only get to choose six lessons. He's got a delicate chin and a typical London-boy nose; straight high and narraow nosal bridge - I find that a good thing to sketch down. Only thing is, it is always so embarrassing if you get caught by someone when you are sketching a guy or a girl. I hate that, but I somehow managed to do that anyway. A profile of old Nicholas beside the window in the physics lab.
Nicholas' that kind of boy who makes you think of a real gentleman; though he got that typical voice of boy-adolescence - well perhaps not. I'll just pick his voice out among a hundred samples without difficulty, if you wanna try. Deep, 'bit hoarse, but youngish and green. He's quiet too, but not the Sylvia kind. It's just a pleasure to see him walking alone through the glittering shadows freely and gracefully across the campus. A picture rather than a scene.
You won't think Nicholas' lonely if you see him strolling with his grey backpack on his own. But not so Sylvia; you'll just feel sort of lonesome if you see her walking in silence or going downstairs in a fluid movement, even if she's with the crowd. They are kind of similar in a way, but absolutely different in others. Well Sylvia has got soft black hair and Nicholas' is deep chestnut brown, nearly black, cropped neatly short. I still can't tell you much about his eyes. I hate to have this sort of difficulty looking into somebody's eyes because that takes me a helluva time and attention and...somewhat, bravery to figure out what color eyes that fella has. Closest guess, he probably has eye color close to greyish amber or amberish grey. They look peaceful, and clean, and clear, I might've added. You'll just have to imagine his profile in the sun, blurred by the light. Angelic. I'm no queer but I still think that way.
That girl Sylvia I was talking about just gives off an exactly different air. A melancholy, lonesome outsider. Doesn't sound good, but I don't give a damn because I am one. When she was passing me the text book yesterday on Italian I got a close look at her hand. Not too much special, small pink nails; I merely paid attention to her knuckles. They are small, with pale purplish, bruise-like patches; and a few thin scars at the back. Those must be cuts. That startled the hell out of me, but it passed soon. I smiled a little. I got cuts too, but not on the back of my hand. It's just too clear to imagine her sliding the blade of a paper knife, or a jack knife over the tight, snowy-white skin of her left hand back, with misty eyes and impassive set of her lips. I lowered my sight and looked at my knuckles. They are swollen and red because I gave a full fist to nearly everything last night; mirror, window (I didn't break any, thanks to God), frame of my bed, walls, book shelf, wardrobe, writing desk, whatever. I just did it until my knuckles got so sore that I could hardly move them. I just did it because I got so damn depressed. Then when I calmed down I started thinking about you and everything. That's grown into a habit, missing you when I cool down from something. It's still a bit painful when I lift my fingers or write, but I won't have to suffer long. A few days, or a few hours I suppose. Once my knuckles go better and scrawny like before - I got skinny wrists and knuckles and fingers and knees - I'll probably have the kind of pale bruises left, like old Sylvia.
加为好友
送他礼物
发送消息
