h in h

Facing certain kinds of people, or a certain kind, or perhaps even not enough to form 'a kind', or not really homogeneous to be qualified so, I always find myself speechless, since 'the things' I desire to utter are way much more than what I can with the means at my disposal. My sole attention is how I honor, but sometimes it seems to be mistaken for distrust. It all appears to be about a game of 'knowing' and 'thinking' and the discrepancy: when I lay my eyes on that particular person, I know she thinks I am smart but I also know even she knows I am amazed by her somehow and other, of which she is not sure about the expiration date though, she does not know I see in her much more than just 'smart'. I know she does not know how stubbornly faithful, almost religiously blind, I am. Facing, very much like nine or ten years ago, my words won't come out when I most want to use them, except this time, it does concern someone else besides myself. Is that it? Is that supposed to be the way I love? Is it definite? Until I can figure it out, the situation willl remain 'happy in hell'.

She said, "you will manage. " and I rushed out of the room. Now I'm thinking I must be careful not to try to rationalize the choice made which was made not at all according to reason. Cherish the state I've finally come into the unjustifiable character of which is the perfect justification faithful to the not-yet-explicability of it.

/aI/

don't have time to come here (but I should always take time to put down the I at the beginning of that sentence: I don't have time to come here). Calculating the hours I spent on what I'm doing each day, I am shocked at the amount of time passing by, almost imperceptibly. Is that how much I care about it or how much I love it or how much I am confused? There is no way to say, perhaps all of them. If I stop, the vacancy will immediately be occupied by "my old pals", the familiar question marks, whose visiting I don't quite appreciate. But even without their actually entering in my mind, I can smell the same smell, the same bleached smell, which would normally drag me into this entanglement ... not yet, but I am afraid...suddenly I remember (that is why I'm wasting time here for not forgetting) that the similar situation happened before, and then something else that I could not have possibly predicted happened too. I was caught off guard so it flashed through by so quickly that I could catch. But the conclusion is: why shouldn't that happen again? Les choses arrivent, est-ce pas? tant que vous ne vous emprisonnez vous-même.

Uneasy

Uneasy, uneasy. The twelve-year-old me would never have guessed that one day she would hear herself say "I'm so happy the vacation is near its end." I cannot wait for it to be over. Mornings are getting chilly and nights even cold, and I, as normally I would do at this time of every year, automatically turn back to the Cure's the Last Day of Summer. Last year, I ran away from this place to avoid thinking about the city becoming empty when I came back, and this year, I stayed, stuffing my timetable to prevent myself from missing something. It is more bearable this time with the awareness of being able to return to what I like and who I adore. I am successful in not missing them too much the whole summer but near the end I find myself nervous, uneasy...happily though. Why am I always filled with hope, or am I just being childish? 
The Cure - The Last Day of Summer by pseudonemo