How I occupy my consciousness.


1. ein

What better way to start a teenager's diary than with love, really.

"With love, Lucy" is how you'd sign a letter once you'd finished thanking your grandma for that knitted jumper you recieved last Christmas, or finished grovelling to the lead singer of your favourite band - or favourite author for that matter - about the prospect of someday crossing paths, but when it comes to journals, blog posts, subconscious doodles scrawled on the back of your hand, the L word appears all too quickly.

And so on that four letter word itself I shall commence. So predictable, I hear the cynics amongst you cry. 

"Oh honey, bless your heart, a fifteen year old thinking they're IN LOVE. It happens to the best of us, but you'll fight it off eventually." 

What do you think I have, an infection? Has the most vital organ in my body suddenly become inflamed? Can I speed up the process with antibiotics? 

Sure, we're young, we're naive, often we're going to fill our minds with the thought of someone to the extent that it's verging on unhealthy. (Or is that just me?)

I myself, like to derive a certain sense of individuality from liking the boys no one else does. I don't mean to imply that I purposely pick out the most obscure looking boy in the school canteen and seduce him with my own awkwardness. I simply see beauty where others see ugliness.

That either makes me an artist, or a person of very poor taste.

If I possessed more of a knack for poetry this would be the ideal opportunity to utilise such skills. 

List-making is an art I have mastered, however.

Why I like you:  - you're intelligent, which ticks off numero uno on my discerning criteria

- you have tousled red hair that makes you look like you've just fallen out of bed, all day long

- your skin is so ghostly pale it almost glows in the sunshine

- this porcelain complexion accentuates the shadows under your eyes, like bruises

- I, being the romantic that I am, like to imagine such insomnia came about because you stayed up late immersed in a book

- even though it's probably because you were playing Call of Duty into the early hours

- you have gentle looking hands with short stubby nails 

- there's nothing more adorable than the sight of you wringing them together nervously

- especially when making a speech in English about the stupidity of worshipping celebrities, and may I say, I heartily concur

- you seem to richochet between personalities as frequently as I do

- this is somewhat disconcerting, but to criticise would make me a hypocrite

- you're vulnerable and a little bit lame

- you have subtle flaws like a disproportional nose and a slight overbite

- the croaky voice you have in the morning is to die for

- etcetera, etcetera

It's not a petty thing, this el, oh, vee, ee, business. It's a force to be reckoned with.  

It's a universal fascination, and yet universally denied by those who behold it.

Lust, love, infatuation. 

They're just labels.

Love is love is love.

And that's all I have to say on the matter. 

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