Homage to all the Rabbits

Who is the young man on the swings? Are his shoes filthy from kicking at the dirt? Is that a cigarette in his left hand? Does the smell revolt him? Did he steal the packet from the corner shop? Does he smoke because he cannot go home to cook? Is his mother the reason he is too scared to step into his home again?

Is she at home right now, sobbing because she does not know what she did wrong? Does she wipe her eyes on a dirty tea towel? Does she head upstairs? Does she push at his locked door? Does she fall to the floor? Does she rack her brains? Does she cry out to anyone? Is the name on her lips his?

Does he whisper his mother’s name? Does he even think of her? Is he thinking of his friends? Is he wondering where he could sleep tonight? Does it cross his mind that the local gymnasium has a broken window? Does he remember playing in the gym, aged seven? Does he think of his primary school teachers? Does he dream of becoming a teacher one day? Does he love history? Does he despise maths? Does he despise his balding maths teacher? Does he think of him now, as he kicks at tiny pebbles on the playground floor? Does it cross his mind to throw the rocks? Does he begin throwing them harder, further?

Does he start to run? Does he start to head away from the lights of the tiny town? Does he think about where he is heading? Is he following the road that leads to the dairy farms? Does he turn down a random driveway? Does he choose that one because of the faint light in an upstairs bedroom? Is the light shining pink because of the colourful curtains? Were the curtains chosen by a twelve year old girl? Is she lying in bed awake? Is she secretly reading by the light of a lamp? Is she imagining herself as a character in the book? Is she pretending to be Wendy? Scolding Peter Pan, preparing dinner for the Lost Boys?

Does she hear the crunch of gravel outside? Does she peek out the corner of her window and see the young man panting and crying? Is he bend double, leaning on a fence post for support? Does the Wendy-wannabe throw open the window? Does she throw a stuffed elephant at the young man? Does it startle him as it lands at his feet? Does he pick it up? Does he clutch at it? Does the young girl run downstairs? Does she find her Peter Pan, dirty and sobbing? Does he say anything to her? Does he stare into her wide eyes? Does she pat his arm? Does she tell him to go home? Does he take the toy? Does he look back as he walks off? Does he wind up back at the playground? Who is he, anyway? Who is the young man on the swings?

See, but now you’re just being negative, you COULD enjoy the rain, but now are choosing not to - but it can still suit your current mood if you give it the chance haha :P

I’m sorry. I’ll not concede defeat, because I still consider rain without thunder/lightning a waste of bad weather, but I’ll let you love your drizzle.

Never, go and put your ipod in, as loud as the volume can go, put on warm clothes and go and get soaked as you dance in the rain, letting it wash you clean and fresh!

:O Child? How do you not have pneumonia already? The rain is cold, and unkind to my goosebump-prone skin. Also, the ground is slippery. My classical training does not provide for such unpredictable flooring.

Sometimes I want to do this for hours on end.

The rain does not suit this mood. The family cannot banish me outdoors. I am silenced.

Check, Jacqueline?

Far too subtle.

Mya deals only with makeup of the stage variety, and face paint.

Longing for the latter.

• Quite lost.
• I found myself driving through Gordon at 4pm.
• I was exhausted.
• I was late, for a very important date.
• My phone died.
• I was crawling along the Pacific Highway, sobbing at my overwhelming powerlessness.

I was found today.

• No signs pointed to home.
• My Lord took me back to places I knew.
• I made it home on time. I began to repair a tenuous friendship.
• I was still sobbing at 6; I had been rescued.

I sat in the driver’s seat all afternoon, but I was not in control.

My night is not over.

Also, I think I need to create more. Besides my red diary/scrapbook, I’ve nearly nought to show for this year.

I’m mimicking you. I think I ought to meet more people.

I think I’d like to know more.

Do my friends not count as Horcruxes? Have I not divided amongst them the most important pieces of me? Do they not encourage and strengthen me by simply existing? I cannot be wholly destroyed, then, I will still have these amazing reserves of energy walking and laughing beside me.

Second best piece of careers advice I’ve been given all year.

First place goes to Doherty Dearest with his “I have a friend who could incite WW3, her name is Mya”.

Perhaps the two ideas are linked?