Girl Half Empty

//What an odd thing a diary is: the things you omit are more important than those you put in//
- Simone de Beauvoir
/June winner of the diary competition/


8. //We long for journeys and the roadside, We long for starlight and the low tide, Yeah we long for fairy tales and firesides//

June 5th

This morning I marvelled at grey in a way I’ve never marvelled before because the burly mass of thunder that rolled upon the horizon like the Atlantic sea was outlined like someone had drawn it a space with a sharpie pen.

It made me think of a little room full of little chairs in a little primary school where the days were short and the socks were long. It made me think of seeing my little country in a little corner of our little world on a little piece of paper that served little use as a map. It made me think of being taught to mark out the Geographer’s sea with a coastline of blue crayon. Only this morning the sea that sweeps northern Scotland was not blue but chlorine-gold like a Bartlett Pear.

I think I love skies more than I’ve ever loved people.

This evening the sky was ruled by a rope of indigo that ran like a greyhound for mile after mile of sunset. I realised I’ve spent too much time looking at the ground recently and not enough observing the ceiling – that messy masterpiece of perpetually shifting sameness. Today it was as though God was a toddler finger-painting with too much zeal, or a child dragging a stick along the beach and leaving trails in the sand. 

I leant out of the car window, as my dad drove me between hours of ballet, and wanted to swallow or to touch the atmosphere so that I could feel like a part of it.

Later, I crouched in the garden with some old friends and we tried to discern our future while acoustic guitars and vibratos crept through us; nudging us towards belief in poignancy and our own momentousness.

I love what a campfire does to people. I love looking at their faces as they brood over the flames; all enraptured, all dreamy. Their hands were glooped with marshmallow and their fingers slightly charred but the firelight smoothed out all the ruffles so that they looked like sphinxes; carved with care and frozen by burning. 

I love how campfires taste and smell and feel and I love the way that I have a friend who is more of a boy scout than Baden-Powel himself and I think that, if cigarettes were the same as wood smoke, I’d have yellow teeth and fingernails. There’s just something about firesides that feel like fairy tales – like milestones and summer and completion – and that seem to lend depth and possibility to the world.

You see, I’m a not-so-secret romantic with nobody to love.

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