I've just had the most hilarious idea. My ten year old little brother was helping my father make a pie, and in reply to something my father asked him, he said, "Oh, just, wait a minute," in a very mellow, thoughtful way. He was so obviously in his own little world of thoughts. He has an old soul. A wise, old soul. And I thought, imagine that same sweet, innocent sentence from the same little boy, at voice break! and I just giggled out in front of me, to an empty room. Just imagine! It seems so impossible. Where will my little G.P.D. go?

And then a second thought struck me. I won't be around. I just won't be here any more when that time comes. I will not see the process, I won't see it happening... I'll just be gone one day, and when I return years later for a brief visit, he will be grown and masculine, muscular, with a deep voice, stuck in his own world (again, but this time) of adolescence and teenage behaviour. It saddens me to the deepest part of my heart. He's going to miss me. And shoot me! I'm going to miss him thrice as much. I'm his little mummy. I'm his big protective sis. I won't be here to see him grow up into a strong male. I won't experience him taking home his first girlfriend... or his second, and third. Fuck. Perhaps I shouldn't go to England, and just live in watchful misery.

I have this urging headache. I can still sit up and walk, it's not that bad, but it's continuous. And I'm pissed about it. Bloody head.

In the mean time there's this perpetual presence or P. in my imagination. There's a long story concerning the history but I'm too lazy to elaborate. What's the point. I'm anxious for him to reply to my letter, I'm anxious for us to meet again and have a proper talk to get every little dropped stitch pulled straight and back in line... And I'm secretly wishing he wants me back in all earnest. We were always perfect for each other. We just met too soon in life. Five years too soon, in fact. Stupid time. Fuck it.

He might be married.
He might be in Italy.
He might have ceased to exist.
He might hate me to fucking death.
He might faint and remain in unconsciousness for the next two years due to receiving a letter from me, never mind its contents.
He might still love me.
He might just ignore my initiative in all indifference.

But perhaps this is not all so innocent from my side. Maybe this is just the little devil within me, falling back on my most favourite ex, now I have no-one... Who knows?

Messiah.

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I feel so