I'm thinking of writing a book. I don't know what about yet. I want it to be about a girl named Suzanne. This is how I'll describe her: Suzanne was the only child of two distant parents, and a mother to none. Well, there would have been four, had she planned her parenthood. But she didn't have time for that nonsense - she could barely keep up with her own personalities. How on earth could she be expected to open up her life to a new creature when there's barely enough room in her head?
Plot ideas - Suzanne leaves town for either a. She is looking for the perfect pair of sunglasses, which is the cure for the horrible affliction she has suddenly become a victim of. The color is draining out of her life. This was fine with her, in the beginning. First it was just food, then people. But now buildings and dogs and street signs and all the things she loves aware becoming desaturated and she knows she's next. OR b. To look for a magic man to exorcize her teenage demons, though 23, she hasn't had a birthday not ending in teen. They just don't come. The day doesn't come. It goes around her, sneaks past her, jumps over her, she can't quite seem to catch it. Hoping to finally begin her adult life, she must find the magic man legend to live deep in the forests of Palawan. She travels exclusively through hitch hiking and long long walks. Of course, she finds him, but that's not the point. The traveling is the point. Unfortunately, she'll get exactly what she asks for and immediately owns forty sharp dress suits.
OR at a party, Suzanne drinks too much (she has to numb the pain of being 23) and wanders into the wrong coat room. She ends up in the land of never afters. Here lay all the infinities and the things that nothing comes after. She is over joyed and goes to find true love, but only death awaits her there. Everything there is just death, but disguised and hidden. If nothing comes after, then it's a sort of death, no matter how you skew it.
OR Suzanne suffers from a case of shrinking. Her hands and skin are contracting, but most startlingly she has been losing her vocabulary. She speaks only in 5 word sentences. It's put a strain on all her relationships, but she can't even have a good long cry about it. So she dugs a tunnel under her bed to try and uncover what she's lost, but instead she falls down to the other side of the world.
Okay thats it so far. It'd be shit but I dunno. I want to write a book.
I'll read your text now, my phone couldn't receive it last night.
I can truly relate to aomames up bringing
I want to help you learn how to feel heat. You know I'm not such a fan of air conditioning and other simulated, artificial environments. I'd much rather feel the wind and the sun and the temperature as the environment has dictated it, if you ever sleep over, you'll get it. You need to feel the heat. On your skin, on your scalp, in your bones. You need to let it sink into you, through you, past all your muscles and cartilage until it finds your center of gravity, of being. I think that's what life is about. Feeling the heat. Otherwise, what type of existence is that? Is a curated life a real one? Otherwise, what on earth are we doing?
I hate not being able to tell you goodnight. I hate it. My greeting is stuck in my throat, like a large clump of bread, and it's meant for you but you're far away and I have no way of getting it out so I guess I'll just have to choke on it and let my fingers roam across this empty bed looking for you, looking for you.