“Are you ticklish?” Nate asked Emma as they sat on the bright green bedspread in her dorm room. The TV flickered in the background.
“No.” “You answered too quickly. You’re ticklish, aren’t you.” A smile lit up his face. Emma stuttered. “No. No I am not, stay away from me.” “I think we should test this.” He started to move closer. “Nate if you touch me I am going to hurt you.” “You would never.” “I would. Don’t test me.” Emma panicked. “Too late.” As soon as the words left his lips, his hands had descended on her sides, mercilessly. Emma screeched and tried to escape, her body flailing in every direction as she tried to roll off the bed. But Nate knew her too well and pinned her flailing legs down with his, never pausing in his assault on her stomach. Emma’s sides ached and her eyes filled with tears as she laughed, helpless and trapped. Nate’s laughter mingled with her own as she desperately tried to wiggle out from under him. She begged and pleaded with him but to no avail, he either didn’t hear her or he was simply ignoring her. “PLEASE!” Emma screeched desperately. She had latched onto his wrists and tried to pry them away from her ribcage. Suddenly, there was a loud banging on the wall next to the bed. “Can you keep it DOWN?!” a muffled voice yelled from the room next to them. Nate paused in surprise, giving Emma her chance to gain the upper hand. For the half-second that his hands went slack she shoved him to the side and pinned the torturous hands above his head by his wrists. Parts of her long blonde hair had escaped the hair tie, haphazardly framing her face as she stared down at her best friend, chest heaving from laughter. “I am going to hurt you.” She panted, but her voice held no conviction. Nate started to laugh. “Do your worst.” He retorted, a huge grin on his face. Emma stared at him, half of her brain concentrating on revenge, the other half marveling at how handsome he was when he smiled at her like that. It was a smile only reserved for her, for when they were alone. A soft, flirty, mischievous smile that never failed to get him out of trouble. “You’re terrible, you know that, right?” she uttered in defeat. They both knew she wasn’t going to do anything but give-up. “Oh, I know, that is what makes this so much fun.” Nate chortled. Emma shook her head and giggled, when she looked back down again, she suddenly became very aware of the fact that she was straddling his waist. Nate’s bright blue eyes were scouring her face, his own holding an expression she had never seen before. “What?” Emma asked. “You know, you are really beautiful.” Nate breathed. Emma’s breath caught in her throat. Her brain stuttered, from the window the bells of the campus clock alerted the student body that it was almost the top of the hour. She needed to say something. “Class,” she blurted. Nate’s expression went from smoldering to confused. “Class?” “Yes, yes we need to go to class. It is almost two o’clock.” Emma clambered off his chest and hastily walked over to where their bags lay near the door. She turned back to find Nate leaning on his elbows watching her with a bemused look on his face. “What?” Emma stuttered. Nate shook his head, jumped up and walked over to her and his bag. “Nothing Ms. Hastings,” he teased, “let us go off to class.” They walked out the door and into the hall. He threw is arm over her shoulder as usual, kissed the top of her head, and set off to class.
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Nothing ever seems to slow you down. Obstacles seem to melt out of your way as the rest of the world fights through them. It is beyond frustrating, yet I long to catch up with you. How do you do it? How do you make it look so easy when from personal experience life is so hard?
My admiration for you makes me angry. I do not want to place you on the pedestal of success, but unconsciously, I do so anyway. You have life figured out, or you have created a very elaborate lie to show the world. Do I hide my struggles as well as you do? I hope so, I cringe with the thought of you really knowing just how desperate my situation is. Is it because my struggle seems so much more laborious than yours? Is that where the resentment stems from? I cannot be sure. This is not to say that I do not share your joy. Your happiness, your accomplishments make me so proud to be your friend. You deserve everything and more and you will obtain all you hope to achieve. I know this as well as I know myself. I admire your drive and your dedication. You are so adamant that I run next to you, you push me to keep up, to keep moving forward. Though I am scrambling under the false pretense that running beside you is easy, your unwavering trust in me gives me hope that one day I can be on that pedestal of success next to you. Your confidence gives me hope. Your accomplishments bring me joy, I admire you even when I hate how easy your life seems. One day I hope to boundlessly run through life with you, my resentment left behind with struggles of the past When does one find balance?
As I teeter on a wire between two lives, I usually ask myself this question. The void answers me with nothing, as I expect. It is an impossible question, yet I ask knowing that I will never receive an answer, at least not the one I want. In one hand, I hold the life that I want to live, where writing and creation go hand in hand with my career. This avenue takes more dedication than I can give in my present circumstances. An excuse I let myself believe because it lessens the guilt. This path I desperately cling to is full of bright possibility, it is the light and salvation I crave. Evidence sits within the half-finished stories typed out on the computer or hasty scribbles in the beat to hell notebook that sits in my work bag. The innate need to create drives this life to its fullest, through that I reach joy. The other hand holds the life I am living. It is not a horrible life by any means, it has gotten better since my first blog post, full of angst and frustration, but it still slowly chips at my creative soul. This life is filled with endless commutes and working too long. There is no passion in this life, only the desire to survive. It is the paycheck that drives this life. The more money I make, the easier I breathe, the more content I am. But at the end of my life, I don’t want contentment. Balance comes with time they say. But what if I’m not patient enough? The time we have is so little, why should we waste it with waiting. The void scoffs in my direction, if I think that, then why am I waiting. The only person who can merge these two lives is me, and me alone. Yet every day I choose to keep walking that wire, asking impossible questions about balance and complaining about wasting time. An addict to pain. Evoking both a desperate plea to escape, coupled with the knowledge that the body is still able to bear the weight of life. Most days it is easy to control, the pills help dull the ache, but the relief only lasts until the numbness wears off. Two more pills, four more hours of relief.
These are the days that are workable, anticipated even. An excuse to take the ibuprofen, to feel that hurt ebb from thoughts, to know that there is still an amount of control left. An easy solution to a complicated problem. Rattling of the pill bottle elicits a physical response. Calming. Who cares what these chemicals are doing to the body, to the liver. The end is near, if only for a couple of hours. When the ache fades into relief, it is a reminder of when invincibility was conceivable. Other days, rarer days, relief is unattainable. Too much humidity. Too many lifted boxes. A workout gone wrong. An uncomfortable night of sleep. Endless possibilities to elicit the swelling. The dislocation. The medication doesn’t work. The debate to take triple the recommended dose dances through the haze. Too dangerous to be worth it. Maybe. The body screams for relief. Try to limit moving. Nothing works. Breathing hurts. The pain has migrated into the rib cage. Will this ever end? Maybe just a double dose then. No. It won’t help. Why? Because it didn’t the last four times. |