Page 1--Inside Looks Out, Outside Looks In--Amanda Abraham

I am on the inside looking outward. Having strategically positioned my body here, the sun is damaging my eyes, but the blinding warmth couldn’t be better.

As expected, I haven’t been able to function normally at all today… as it has been for the past few weeks now, particularly on Sundays. The one day I put aside for homework, and naturally my head is filled to the brim with the strangest things imaginable. Today is like this, yet entirely different, for obvious reasons. Weeks ago my friendship with an old and dear female Scorpio friend was dissolved over a breakfast. And as what I believe to be a product of Saturn’s pull, my former muse—who both despises and revels in this astrological label—has managed to work his way back into my life somehow, years after I had all but wedged him out of my mind with an electric drill. Fantasy and reality have collided. This balancing of the scales is one of the most unexpected I’ve encountered…

I have spent the last few days seriously questioning whether if I am in a dream. Wondering if all that has occurred is just an illusion: When is someone going to pinch me so I may awake? Where is the thorn in this rose, this gift presented to me from the stars? I have only to expect to be setting myself up for a fall, but as I’d outwardly mentioned, nothing he could do or say to me at this point would shock me in the slightest. Yes, I lied to him several times, looking back on it. He lied too, and even though that is an assumption, still it doesn’t cheapen the experience. I have thought of every possible scenario that could happen prior to our reunion. All of them—and then some—have occurred.

I have been cast a spell on. My breasts are swelling for some unknown reason. Something is pulling me towards this person I don’t really know, but would like to think I do, and constantly try to pick apart.

I walked through his door knowing full well that I would not be the same when I left. I didn’t expect him to let me stay until morning. The man I’d previously looked at as the devil himself has now transformed in front of my very eyes. Hardly a saint…but more so in human form than I’d seen within the confines of high school. I still fear him. He had hurt me several times in the past, just by being himself, and now I hate myself for that. I allow the things that people do to me to affect me that much. I want to change, but I can’t move on from past hurts. This seems to be the only definite thing we have in common- the nickname he has formed for me is a prime example of this. We have grown separately since we first met… we weren’t even friends then. Are we friends now? I still carry with me rather a large laundry bag of apprehension. He tells me I don’t need to be insecure around him… probing me with questions he already knows most of the answers to. How did he know my mother married young?

Nobody, at least in quite a while, had shown such an avid interest in finding out what makes me tick both positively and negatively. I look in the mirror constantly and wonder about how I can change how others see me. He tries to be humble and appear puzzled at the thought of me being totally enamored of him, almost as if the mere questioning of it would change my mind completely. I don’t see how it’s possible. I don’t see how he can look in the mirror and not be completely aware of this power he has. I feel like even though I have exposed so much to him, there’s still so much more I want to share. I don’t think the hidden list of potential things to say will ever run out. I wonder why he feels like sex with me this soon was a mistake. I think he may have overlooked how patient I’ve been (several years is a rather long time span, I would say). I don’t think one needs to pencil in an agenda for an appropriate time to make it. There is no schedule for love— if you need it, give it.



“You know we’ve done this before, right?”


I wonder why tears sprang from his eyes more than once that night. I still can’t help but worry there were other reasons for his sudden fits of laughter other than being too impaired by alcohol to function. Somehow I was astonishingly able to keep my own bubble from bursting. I don’t know if he noticed how much I wanted to cry… I guess I figured I’d extracted more than enough tears by then. Everything is a contradiction. Our entire interaction is a contradiction.

There I am, trying to appear as if there is some sort of composure about myself, and suddenly my back is pushed up against the wall in the shower. Makeup is running off my face. My top fear has come true—my ugliness has been exposed. I look at my reflection in disgust and pinch my cheeks in desperate order to restore color and distract from the imperfections- I draw blood instead. He comments on every movement I make, down to how I’m getting dressed before I leave, so why wouldn’t he mention the fact that I have a horrid complexion? Once again, I am actively waiting for this humiliation. I expect it. I go home, and as soon as I make a feeble attempt to direct my attention on “normal” things, like dishes and scrubbing the caked baking sheet… soon I am sobbing. I don’t know whether they are tears of joy, fear, regret, or extreme disbelief, but the last time I cried like this wasn’t recently. I don’t know if I’m depressed, or just overwhelmed, but these tears keep welling up at the remembrance of certain scenes from the night. I feel as though I’ve gone on an acid trip without the LSD. He tries to convince me that we will be seeing each other again soon, but not doing a very good job of it. I suppose it’s obvious I need that reassurance. He tells me I always have this blank expression on my face, although I have noticed the exact same quality in his.

He says he wants my friendship- suddenly willing to look past the constant guard I've put up. Wants my continued help with literary works... what useful help could I possibly offer other than grammar and spelling? Anything he wants me to do, I am willing to do it. I sincerely want to, and I have a strong need to... I’m used to this sort of puppetry, but I would like to think there is a purpose or reason behind it. What if there isn’t? I’m sure that would make no difference. We are, after all, merely a repeat of something that’s existed twice before.


The sun is now setting, today’s colors are shifting, and with this transition, I’d feel better to convince myself that I’m somewhat saner now preceding this release.

Would it really surprise you all that much if I decide not to share these details with anyone else? It’s all headed for the garbage, anyhow...


Inside looks out, outside looks in.