The Edge Of Sanity.

On my little pink thing I use as a stool to substitute my shortness lies a square brown book. It seems heavy but fragile and on it the words “NAtaLIe rOse HILL” and a rainbow are printed on in the glitter glue I begged Tandra for last Christmas. It’s really heavy and smells like my Vera Wang (my scent, if you didn’t get that part) and it always throws me back, because I always forget about it until I lift up the pink thing to get my secret stash of Oreos, lift the top off, and hear something fall off and thud on the floor. Because, or maybe in spite of the fact that I can never quite stop it from falling, I’m really protective of that book. Anyways, once you open the cover, you realise that it’s actually the cover that’s the heavy part but the pages are light as a feather and are filled with the most beautiful things that I could ever dream of and basically, this is what makes up me. All those old McFly, Busted, Son of Dork and even Hear‘Say tickets glued in, pictures cut out from holiday brochures (when they still did them) of places that I wanted to see, pieces of bubblewrap and wrapping paper that I kept from my favourite gifts and, later on, a documentation from when I was ten telling myself that I’d found that I was really good at art, with loads of drawings on it. So I think: this all makes up me, this IS me, right? And that’s why I love and cherish it, and this is why, in all that I crap on about in the about me section about loving, hating and missing, this is the only way I could ever keep these memories, because I don’t want to let it go. Because people don’t understand just how much I’ve been through, and I have the thing that everyone wants, for reasons unbeknown to me. I have a reason to be depressed. I could let everything I’ve seen overthrow me, buy a load of cats, put on a ripped wedding dress and live in a windowless log cabin in the middle of nowhere. There’s some kind of classy front about it, the glamour, that pit in your stomach that makes you so sad that you don’t know how to contain it, makes you hurt yourself and other people until it eats you alive. I’ve seen too many people go down that road to decide it’s for me, even if I’ve looked over the side, even dared myself to dive in for it. The edge of sanity. But this book is, quoting Emma Coull, “something constant in a world of endless change”, because it reminds me of who I was before the faeces hit the fan, which I know for myself isn’t entirely a good thing, and that’s why I want to keep it.

Maybe this is what my parents think of me, especially my Dad. No, not crazy overprotective book girl! I have the cover, even if it isn't hard or heavy, but once you open it, all the tiny little pointless peices of me eventually fall through the cracks, one by one as the crappy glue i used to hold it all together unbonds itself and you as the reader have to stick it all together to make it better for me again and I just can't do it because I know what the glues sticking together, and it ain't pretty. And this, ladies and gentlemen, is the story of my life. It explains everything if you look deep enough into it and it kind of makes me want to cry, just because I'm so needy and this time there isn't anyone to stick it all back together.

Maybe that's because he's the one who fell apart.