The Notebook Chronicles

The little bald one with the glasses is the regular.  I know him only as the milk truck man.  He actually wears a blue collar.  I like to think I belong in that class, despite my ripped t-shirt.  We make our living off the same industry.  His job occasionally overlapping mine.  But that is all.

The milk truck man.

We exchange pleasantries before most of the world has even woken.  "Good morning," and, "How are you today?"

This morning as I finished clean-up I felt like we shared a bond.  Both of us the working class.  Earning our keep at jobs we do well.  Keeping our hours and making sure you get milk on your morning cheerios.

I grinned at him.  As though, somehow, we knew a common secret.  It not occurring to me that it was a connection noted only in my mind that particular AM.  He probably only thought I was strangely cheerful at a time when usually I look forward to is going back to bed.

I leave our farm as the sun rises.  My part of the process complete for now.  He finishes loading the fruit of my labour and continues on, his day just beginning.

The milk truck man pulls up to another parlour as I crawl beneath the covers.

---

The feature where I let you read the ramblings of my past.

The Notebook Chronicles

(Today's Beautiful Source: Tracelegacy)

This place, it almost seemed familiar.  When I closed my eyes that all-to-familiar feeling would come rushing back.  For lack of better options I have come to think of it as the fresh-start feeling.  Feeling, emotion, opportunity.  Whatever you choose to call it.  I suppose that's what it was.

See, I'm an addict.  Most of us are.  Alcohol, novels, food, sex, adrenaline.  We have something we turn to again and again.  For me it was the "new life."  The places I have gone looking for it...  The forms it has taken.  I have been saved by too many religions, entered too many love affairs, started too many diets.  Each time re-convincing myself that this time I had found the one that would make all the difference.  Time and again I have ripped myself to pieces for the thrill of embraced opportunity.  Opportunity I forced to be there.

Why would this time be any different.  Did I think because I was aware more then ever that I could break out?  Addictions don't work that way, Sweetheart.  I'm indulging in my favourite form of the hit, and I know it.

Changing locations.  Replanting.  The rest of you know it as moving.  I have done it a few to many times.  I have been welcomed by the good neighbor committee many times.  Assured them as many that I was hoping to settle.  And I was.  Oh, was I.  But before to long things weren't new any more.  Not exciting.  The streets had been explored, the company met.  Things would start to feel stale.  Often it was an apartment of my own.  Occasionally a quaint small town.  Maybe it's that I want chances on the horizon.  Or maybe I feel a need to flee from every little mistake.

Today the street is empty.  Dead leaves rustle on this sidewalk.  I hate the onset of winter.  Everything seems so dead, so comfortable.  Not in the least vibrant.  Hibernation.  That's the word.  I hate it.

This new street in this new place.  With all this newness even the dismal sky can't completely suffocate  the thrill.  I should be inside unpacking.  I've found the cutest bungalow just outside town.  I think I'll have time to explore what I always believe I want to.  Painting, running, a little gardening.

"If you're still around," my new found pessimist murmurs skeptically in my ear.  I ignore it.  No need to further suffocate this chance of a high.

---

These are the posts where I let you glimpse random pages from my scribbles of the past.  Raw, young and often unfinished.  Remember, with this piece, fiction is often prevalent...

The Notebook Chronicles

I once knew this girl

Now she wanders the world,

Against her I know my frustration is hurled.

Her bag is nigh empty

Her cares are nigh none,

She'll throw caution to the wind then take off at a run.

I think of her sometimes

When all else is slow,

The trigger is locked, set to signify, "go."

I remember her passion,

Her daring,

Her love.

She thought she'd win out when push came to shove.

I know that she's somewhere, somewhere out there.

At first I forget, then it's too much to bare.

And yet, she is still there

Deep in my mind.

We once were so close,

Like two of a kind.

I think she is gone now, our paths will not cross.

Unless I go out.  Get throughly lost.                                                                                                              

I'll grab hold of life,                                                                                                                  

Let my soul from inside.

I'll push this one down,

So it won't run and hide.

I know she is out there,

I'll find her one day.

I'll catch her,

And free her,

And then come what may!

Photo Source: In-dark on Deviant Art

The Notebook Chronicles

Snow is falling.  She watches as the cold minuscule pellets fly past her to the ground.  Getting lost in her hair so she hardly feels them, lightly stinging her nose and neck.  Her palms now, as she holds them to the sky, watching tiny droplets form on her skin.

It is time to walk on, she knows.  The thought of the last stretch, the tasks that need doing.  Life as it should be lived.  Still, she is not tired.  Longing to stand here a bit longer thinking of nothing.

These little bits of ice, their shape, their feel distract her, in their freezing way, from the hurt.  The same hurt that has simply sat at the base of her existence.  Not rising, not screaming...  just there.

Life goes on as it always will.  She trudges on, now, hands in pockets.  Her thoughts rise to their normal tasks.  Yet she is somehow refreshed by her moment in the snow.

---

Since I've moved back into my old place I've unearthed a stack of notebooks containing all manner of scribblings.  Recipes, French, drawings that are better then I thought.  And, of course, every sort of writing, emotion, and bit of teenagehood angst.

"The Notebook Chronicles," from this point forward, means that it's something I've unearthed from this stack of lined paper and ballpoint pen.  Please remember, they span the ages of of 16-22.  And I will go out of my way not to edit the bits that get spewed out here.