<?xml version='1.0' encoding='UTF-8'?><?xml-stylesheet href="http://www.blogger.com/styles/atom.css" type="text/css"?><feed xmlns='http://www.w3.org/2005/Atom' xmlns:openSearch='http://a9.com/-/spec/opensearchrss/1.0/' xmlns:georss='http://www.georss.org/georss' xmlns:gd='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005' xmlns:thr='http://purl.org/syndication/thread/1.0'><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-15612871</id><updated>2011-04-21T19:21:52.217-07:00</updated><title type='text'>Forsaken Dreams</title><subtitle type='html'></subtitle><link rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#feed' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://narikia.blogspot.com/feeds/posts/default'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/15612871/posts/default?max-results=100'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://narikia.blogspot.com/'/><link rel='hub' href='http://pubsubhubbub.appspot.com/'/><author><name>Narikia</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/06516335411384014183</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='32' height='29' src='http://img.photobucket.com/albums/v708/angelcyn/Follow%20Me/zImage9a.jpg'/></author><generator version='7.00' uri='http://www.blogger.com'>Blogger</generator><openSearch:totalResults>9</openSearch:totalResults><openSearch:startIndex>1</openSearch:startIndex><openSearch:itemsPerPage>100</openSearch:itemsPerPage><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-15612871.post-112601501455587500</id><published>2005-09-06T23:34:00.000-07:00</published><updated>2005-09-06T06:56:54.590-07:00</updated><title type='text'>Past</title><content type='html'>Is it so bad to be so wishing that everything was how it was a long time ago? Even though you knew it could never ever happen? So you wish so bad, that you become completely drowned in the past, practically living within your thoughts and memories of everything that used to be?&lt;br /&gt;That's me.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;In class, with friends, when I'm trying to sleep, it seems 24/7, just absolutely &lt;span style="font-weight: bold;"&gt;drowning&lt;/span&gt; in all these memories to the point that I can't &lt;span style="font-style: italic;"&gt;breathe&lt;/span&gt; properly. And even though it hurts so &lt;span style="font-style: italic;"&gt;terribly&lt;/span&gt; to remember everything, I still do it. Like self mutilation only mentally. It's draining me of my energy and making me feel like a shadow of what was left from all the times and all the memories.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Even though I'm still in contact with Michael, and Mick, even Faye sometimes, I miss my old High School, and I miss being happy. Even though we may have had problems back then, we were happy. At least the happiest that we could have been. I should be happy, shouldn't I? I shouldn't be broken up about the past, but I am. I should've fixed everything up immediately after it shattered, but I didn't. Why didn't I? I'm not usually that stubborn...&lt;br /&gt;See! Now with all the "could'ves, should'ves and would'ves"....&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Sleep is needed.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Now when I'm getting so involved in living in the past, I begin crying, even though it hurts so much to be crying, to be admitting that I'm not okay and that I'm not any better off, I still feel better to not be bottling everything up.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/15612871-112601501455587500?l=narikia.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://narikia.blogspot.com/feeds/112601501455587500/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=15612871&amp;postID=112601501455587500' title='4 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/15612871/posts/default/112601501455587500'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/15612871/posts/default/112601501455587500'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://narikia.blogspot.com/2005/09/past.html' title='Past'/><author><name>Narikia</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/06516335411384014183</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='32' height='29' src='http://img.photobucket.com/albums/v708/angelcyn/Follow%20Me/zImage9a.jpg'/></author><thr:total>4</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-15612871.post-112582272176630118</id><published>2005-09-03T18:06:00.000-07:00</published><updated>2005-09-04T01:38:39.730-07:00</updated><title type='text'>Bother</title><content type='html'>&lt;blockquote&gt;&lt;/blockquote&gt;&lt;i&gt;"Wish I was&lt;br /&gt;Too dead to cry&lt;br /&gt;My Self-affliction fades&lt;br /&gt;Stones to throw at my creator&lt;br /&gt;Masochists to which I cater&lt;br /&gt;You don't need to bother&lt;br /&gt;I don't need to be&lt;br /&gt;I'll keep slippin' farther&lt;br /&gt;Once I hold on&lt;br /&gt;I won't let go till it bleeds"&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/i&gt;- Stone Sour, 'Bother'&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I keep getting horrible flashbacks. Even when I'm hanging with my friends.&lt;br /&gt;It's like suddenly now I've got an amazing memory, and can remember all these little things that happened, things that I wouldn't usually be able to remember, because that's just me.&lt;br /&gt;Like when Mick sung the above lyrics. He was a very good singer, and sung songs by &lt;span style="font-style: italic;"&gt;Disturbed&lt;/span&gt;, &lt;span style="font-style: italic;"&gt;Linkin Park&lt;/span&gt; and &lt;span style="font-style: italic;"&gt;Stone Sour&lt;/span&gt; absolutely perfectly, but maybe that was just me.. P=&lt;br /&gt;When I was with my friends I zoned out and somehow got this flashback of when Angela thought I was James in her sleep and had told me how much she loved me (James) and I had to leave, cause it was absolutely devastating, the heartbreak he had caused her was even too much for me.&lt;br /&gt;I think... it would have been a couple of weeks from now... That it would have been exactly a year ago that I met him.&lt;br /&gt;Thank goodness Orientation is this Tuesday, meaning I will be working at Hungry Jacks soon. I'm hoping having a job will make me think less about how everything used to be and make me focus on something else, something more about the present and the future. But how much do I miss everything... Everyone... Mick, Angela, Faye... I avoid listing Chelsea, because it's weird as I don't miss her, because I know for a fact she's "happy" how everything is, in her dramatic little world. I don't feel sorry for her. But I do for Mick, for Angela. For Faye, maybe.. Because Angela has left her, just like Angela would have left me if I were still friends with her.&lt;br /&gt;I'm glad she ran away too, makes it so I can't just run into her, like I do with Chelsea. I avoid like crazy to come across Chelsea these days, even moreso to never see her face - even in photos. The same would be for Angela most of the time.&lt;br /&gt;Two and a half years have brought me this far, have made me this old and have given me this much experiance. Even though I feel like I knew all that I've learnt now, all along... I'm scared. This time next year will be different, and in another two and a half years, I would be graduating High School. How different will everything be again? It is terrifying to think... In two and a half years I made the most best friends of my life, and then lost them, and got heartbroken.. Will history repeat itself?&lt;br /&gt;I hate school at the moment. All the girls there.. They are so different from me. In some ways, yes, they are similar to myself. And I can remember when me and Angela were horribly different. But I had adapted and we became identical, though we were already extremely similar really in the first place I think... But this time, I don't want to adapt and I don't want to change and become like the people I hang out with.&lt;br /&gt;Jessica and Sara say I am too quiet and I need to get louder and more "fun" I guess... "I will work on that" I had said. I want to be loud and fun (again?) but it isn't right. I want to be reserved, silent, different, weird.. I want to be called a freak&lt;br /&gt;Everybody in my school are either Plastics or Gothics that seem to think Punk, Emo and Goth is all the same thing. There's alot of girls there that &lt;span style="font-weight: bold;"&gt;love&lt;/span&gt; &lt;span style="font-style: italic;"&gt;Simple Plan&lt;/span&gt; -  I think they suck... The band that is... The girls probably suck too... Haha.&lt;br /&gt;Meanwhile, I'm avoiding Royce now like crazy... I don't even know why... -_-&lt;br /&gt;I hate my life.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/15612871-112582272176630118?l=narikia.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://narikia.blogspot.com/feeds/112582272176630118/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=15612871&amp;postID=112582272176630118' title='1 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/15612871/posts/default/112582272176630118'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/15612871/posts/default/112582272176630118'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://narikia.blogspot.com/2005/09/bother.html' title='Bother'/><author><name>Narikia</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/06516335411384014183</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='32' height='29' src='http://img.photobucket.com/albums/v708/angelcyn/Follow%20Me/zImage9a.jpg'/></author><thr:total>1</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-15612871.post-112557582789735611</id><published>2005-09-01T21:42:00.000-07:00</published><updated>2005-09-01T05:02:44.760-07:00</updated><title type='text'>Boredom</title><content type='html'>&lt;a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/7831/1450/1600/Image12.jpg"&gt;&lt;img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer;" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/7831/1450/320/Image11.jpg" alt="" border="0" /&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I was pouting all week about how boring my life has become. The most excitement has been when I catch up with the boys and Kat. Woo...&lt;br /&gt;It wasn't till after I got told "congratulations, you now work at Hungry Jacks" that I had realised that the very reason I had moved schools in the first place was to escape from all the drama.&lt;br /&gt;Back then it was all "he kissed her's", "whose cheating on who's" and "she betrayed her's" but now I quite miss it... But moving schools was the main thing I wanted to do. I wanted to run away and keep things chilled for awhile. Make new friend's, maybe get a job and just buckle down for a bit and keep it all casual, rather than racing around and hooking up and whatnot. Haha.&lt;br /&gt;I've got to remember that though, cause it gets frustrating somtetimes, with how repeatative life can get. Especially with school being how it is, you know.&lt;br /&gt;I should have come to this conclusion yesterday, when I went on my walk. I had walked up to my old high school and then around the block. I wasn't really going anywhere, just walking. I had somehow wound up at the school though, looking sadly at the picnic tables where me and my group used to hang out at.&lt;br /&gt;I'm not saying I wish I hadn't moved schools... Okay... Maybe I am. Even though moving schools was the wisest thing I did. I miss it all so much. It comes down to whether moving schools was the best thing for me, or for my education. Really, it has slaughtered my education, as my attendance at my new school has been extremely cruddy...&lt;br /&gt;I really have to work on finding a different website to host this on... Heh.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/15612871-112557582789735611?l=narikia.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://narikia.blogspot.com/feeds/112557582789735611/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=15612871&amp;postID=112557582789735611' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/15612871/posts/default/112557582789735611'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/15612871/posts/default/112557582789735611'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://narikia.blogspot.com/2005/09/boredom.html' title='Boredom'/><author><name>Narikia</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/06516335411384014183</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='32' height='29' src='http://img.photobucket.com/albums/v708/angelcyn/Follow%20Me/zImage9a.jpg'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-15612871.post-112521787944150178</id><published>2005-08-28T18:00:00.000-07:00</published><updated>2005-08-28T01:31:19.446-07:00</updated><title type='text'>Weekends</title><content type='html'>This weekend really sucked, especially compared to last weekend. Though at least I was able to hang out with the boys (including Katarina) today. That was pretty cool and nice to be doing something different from sitting here all day and sleeping alot.&lt;br /&gt;Last weekend I slept over Katarina's and went to the Ice Arena and did alot of Ice Skating. It was really fun. On Saturday we went for a bit of a venture through The Plaza and had a kewl time there.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;But this weekend because I've been so sick, my parents forbidded me to go out anywhere, meaning I wasn't allowed to go to Jesse's. That really sucked.&lt;br /&gt;I also was looking foward to going to the movies with Royce too.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Alas, next weekend is awesome. I asked Dad if the boys can crash over here on Friday night! And he was kool with it. I hope it'll be an awesome sleepover.&lt;br /&gt;Then on Sunday me and Royce are going to the cinema to watch 'The Skeleton Key', though I'm not sure if we will be watching the movie much lol.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I've also been inviting to an ex-boyfriend's 16th birthday party... =/&lt;br /&gt;Yay.. I know what I'll get for him though, rather than his suggestion of "making his sweet 16 &lt;span style="font-style: italic;"&gt;really&lt;/span&gt; his sweet 16th..." - I don't think so.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I'm hungry now... When I was leaving to go to Jesse's today, my Dad said "be good", it made me smile, cause he would say that everytime I went to a sleepover at Angela's. He would say "be good" and going to Angela's meant I was going to be quite the opposite.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;span style="font-style: italic;"&gt;Be good. If not, be good at it, cause if you don't get caught: it's not illegal.&lt;/span&gt;&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/15612871-112521787944150178?l=narikia.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://narikia.blogspot.com/feeds/112521787944150178/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=15612871&amp;postID=112521787944150178' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/15612871/posts/default/112521787944150178'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/15612871/posts/default/112521787944150178'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://narikia.blogspot.com/2005/08/weekends.html' title='Weekends'/><author><name>Narikia</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/06516335411384014183</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='32' height='29' src='http://img.photobucket.com/albums/v708/angelcyn/Follow%20Me/zImage9a.jpg'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-15612871.post-112470780807512571</id><published>2005-08-22T20:18:00.000-07:00</published><updated>2005-08-28T01:18:22.950-07:00</updated><title type='text'>Sickness</title><content type='html'>I told Royce one time that I avoid him.. Because I didn't want to fall in love with him. He had replied that he feels the same way about me.&lt;br /&gt;Then he had said 'Isn't it funny how two people, who both are afraid of actually loving somebody, end up on the verge of loving each other?'&lt;br /&gt;On the verge of loving each other....&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I had a bit of a tiff with Mick too. He had told me off for telling Jesse about how he had been banned from Chelsea's house. When I had argued that Chelsea would have told Jesse anyway, he seemed to just shake it off, with the excuse that he just doesn't like Jesse. Who gives a fuck?&lt;br /&gt;I then was puzzled as to how I actually missed the guy.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;My head feels like it's swimming in pain. I've managed to catch this flu that's been going around, and now I am just so sore, I can barely find is standable to sit here comfortably to type.&lt;br /&gt;My tummy is churning, making me wonder if it's going to regect the last meal I consumed, and though my temperature is high, I keep feeling freezing cold.&lt;br /&gt;I slept through lunchtime and the last lesson at school today, I doubt I'll be healthy enough to go to school tomorrow too. Which really annoys me, cause I'm finally deciding to get active in Music, and start to learn the bass guitar. And in week nine (it's week five now) we are going to a concert where our class (the band) will perform 4 songs. I'm terrified.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I think I'm going to go to bed...&lt;br /&gt;&lt;span style="font-style: italic;"&gt;&lt;span style="font-weight: bold;"&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;span style="font-weight: bold; color: rgb(0, 0, 255); font-style: italic;font-family:Sylfaen;" &gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/15612871-112470780807512571?l=narikia.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://narikia.blogspot.com/feeds/112470780807512571/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=15612871&amp;postID=112470780807512571' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/15612871/posts/default/112470780807512571'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/15612871/posts/default/112470780807512571'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://narikia.blogspot.com/2005/08/sickness.html' title='Sickness'/><author><name>Narikia</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/06516335411384014183</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='32' height='29' src='http://img.photobucket.com/albums/v708/angelcyn/Follow%20Me/zImage9a.jpg'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-15612871.post-112462978343395141</id><published>2005-08-21T22:52:00.000-07:00</published><updated>2005-08-28T01:17:50.210-07:00</updated><title type='text'>Ghosts</title><content type='html'>I wipe a tear from my cheek. Why?...&lt;br /&gt;Maybe it's too much listening to sad songs. Maybe it's the loneliness eating away at me slowly.&lt;br /&gt;I remember the last kiss I had... The small peck on the lips between me and him... A goodbye kiss that lasted only a second, but in my mind now lasts for a lifetime. Why the fuck did I like him? Why the fuck am I &lt;span style="font-style: italic;"&gt;missing&lt;/span&gt; him?!&lt;br /&gt;Everything with Mick.. It was so... comfortable. I knew what he was going to do, and he knew when I was going to kiss him. We hardly really talked, but we knew...&lt;br /&gt;He knew...&lt;br /&gt;God... He was such a good kisser....&lt;br /&gt;Why am I caring? Why am I remembering all this? ....It's not fair...&lt;br /&gt;I'm staring at this screen, unreadable words of thought racing through my mind of this subject. I can't sleep like this, I know I have to get up early in the morning though...&lt;br /&gt;I am just so terribly alone... I wish somebody could save me from this...&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/15612871-112462978343395141?l=narikia.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://narikia.blogspot.com/feeds/112462978343395141/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=15612871&amp;postID=112462978343395141' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/15612871/posts/default/112462978343395141'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/15612871/posts/default/112462978343395141'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://narikia.blogspot.com/2005/08/ghosts.html' title='Ghosts'/><author><name>Narikia</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/06516335411384014183</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='32' height='29' src='http://img.photobucket.com/albums/v708/angelcyn/Follow%20Me/zImage9a.jpg'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-15612871.post-112462096318680323</id><published>2005-08-21T20:14:00.000-07:00</published><updated>2005-09-01T04:58:28.620-07:00</updated><title type='text'>Frustration</title><content type='html'>"What the hell &lt;span style="font-style: italic;"&gt;are&lt;/span&gt; you allowed to tell me?!" I typed furiously to Mick.&lt;br /&gt;I had asked him how Chelsea and him were, being in love and "happy" but he has said how things have gone bad to worse, so bad that he's happy about it. I remember when I had been like that, and it was a weird sensation. He had said 'let's not go there' and I was a bit confused, like, could I not know how my friend was going?&lt;br /&gt;And then, quite randomly, he goes "uh oh, not good" kind of thing, so I asked him was was wrong, and he said "oh, nothing. It's best I dont say"&lt;br /&gt;I put my hand through my soft, newly dyed hair and allowed myself to get distracted by the wonderful texture of my hair. Though only slightly, as I began to get a little annoyed, "for fuck sake" I typed, "what the hell are you allowed to tell me?"&lt;br /&gt;"That your my friend" he replied.&lt;br /&gt;"I already know that..." I typed softly.&lt;br /&gt;He apologized, "just stuff going on with someone"&lt;br /&gt;"Who?" I enquired, then added faceasiously "or am I not allowed to know?"&lt;br /&gt;He said that I was allowed to know, though I may not want to know. I said I didn't mind knowing, "I'm thankful I'm allowed to know something. Yay!" - fake excitement.&lt;br /&gt;He just replied "it involves me breaking a promise I made to you" and I said "do explain"&lt;br /&gt;He proceeded to explain how he slept over Chelsea's, at 3am he was in her room. Her Mother had woken up and thought they were.... He paused, and I allowed myself a chuckle. It is actually amusing, you know.&lt;br /&gt;Her Mother told her Dad, and Mick has been banned from Chelsea's house. And Chelsea from Mick's. I sympaphized with him, but in real life I was giggling. How funny indeed...&lt;br /&gt;Maybe they deserve it.&lt;br /&gt;But I can never stop feeling sorry for them. They're so caught up in such shit... And I know Chelsea's family is very cruel to her, they seem to constantly avoid understanding her. But she is one of those people that strive to be misunderstood. It's like a terrible loop really...&lt;br /&gt;I do indeed feel sorry for her, I rarely miss her company. She had told me a week ago, how she had wished we were still in contact. But I simply smiled and said "I don't..."&lt;br /&gt;I consider myself very lucky, for moving schools when I had. Turning my back on her and the people I loved to be with everyday, and running away from the memories that were stained within the walls of my old school. It was actually for the best...&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/15612871-112462096318680323?l=narikia.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://narikia.blogspot.com/feeds/112462096318680323/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=15612871&amp;postID=112462096318680323' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/15612871/posts/default/112462096318680323'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/15612871/posts/default/112462096318680323'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://narikia.blogspot.com/2005/08/frustration.html' title='Frustration'/><author><name>Narikia</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/06516335411384014183</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='32' height='29' src='http://img.photobucket.com/albums/v708/angelcyn/Follow%20Me/zImage9a.jpg'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-15612871.post-112461254185122588</id><published>2005-08-21T17:35:00.000-07:00</published><updated>2005-08-21T02:14:45.476-07:00</updated><title type='text'>Scars</title><content type='html'>&lt;a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/7831/1450/1600/P1040610.jpg"&gt;&lt;img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer;" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/7831/1450/200/P1040610.jpg" alt="" border="0" /&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I had a horrible nightmare last night... I was making out with Chelsea.. I'm amazed I didn't wake up screaming. Maybe it was due to all the reminiscing last night about Chelsea and Mick that I had the nightmare. I found a really old photo, well, not really old. It's of Angela, laughing and smiling. It made me cry... I'm scared that she almost died. I'm scared she's not happy and I'm scared because I'm not by her side.&lt;br /&gt;I held my arm this morning, after finally convincing myself to wake up. My forearm was all soft and smooth. It was pale and flawless in the dimness. I remembered when there was a time that there were cuts over cuts, disgusting and riddled up both arms. In the right light, I can see the scars that they left. I don't regret that. Angela's arms would be the same... Hopefully her cuts have healed by now too, in her mind and on her skin. Now I think of Angelina's arms. Her's would be riddled with damage. It annoys me to think how everyone in her world know about it all, and noone even cares. I look foward to her visit to Adelaide, however. There have been many times where I have just wished to hug her, and tell her everything is going to be okay. It's hard to beleive that everything is okay when everything is falling apart. But it'll only get better when you decide to want it to be better.&lt;br /&gt;So many times I've wanted to imprint my self-hate back into my skin, but holding off has made me get over it even better.&lt;br /&gt;What doesn't break us, makes us stronger.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/15612871-112461254185122588?l=narikia.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://narikia.blogspot.com/feeds/112461254185122588/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=15612871&amp;postID=112461254185122588' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/15612871/posts/default/112461254185122588'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/15612871/posts/default/112461254185122588'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://narikia.blogspot.com/2005/08/scars.html' title='Scars'/><author><name>Narikia</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/06516335411384014183</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='32' height='29' src='http://img.photobucket.com/albums/v708/angelcyn/Follow%20Me/zImage9a.jpg'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-15612871.post-112454820169934443</id><published>2005-08-20T19:42:00.000-07:00</published><updated>2005-08-28T01:16:09.446-07:00</updated><title type='text'>Him</title><content type='html'>&lt;a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/7831/1450/1600/Image1.jpg"&gt;&lt;img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer;" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/7831/1450/200/Image1.jpg" alt="" border="0" /&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I'm actually.. thinking about him... Wondering if he's okay, hoping he's doing well in school.. Maybe it's because I've been listening to so much music by &lt;span style="font-style: italic;"&gt;Disturbed&lt;/span&gt;... I kind of miss him. I didn't really expect to really care about him after he started dating Chelsea. &lt;span style="font-style: italic;"&gt;Especially&lt;/span&gt; after he started dating Chelsea. But here I am, remembering how easy it was being around him, being near him. Remembering the delicious smell of his deoderant, which was always the same and remembering my delight in his reaction when I stroked his spine softly...&lt;br /&gt;Hmm.. I remember when I first met him, dazzled by everything about him, the danger that was everything about him. He was so very different from every other guy I knew and he always will be, so secluded from the rest yet almost completely inconspictous.&lt;br /&gt;He had longer hair, then... Ahh, how uncomforting, remembering all this stuff. Everything back then almost always revolved around him, and sometimes everything still manages to have him mentioned. It amazes me... I am indeed missing Mick.&lt;br /&gt;Everything started to get exciting when he and his best mate came into the picture... But this was such a long time ago now... Wow, how so much has changed since then.&lt;br /&gt;I chuckle now, thinking about that one night I laid my head upon his chest and whispered those horrible words. Words in which later weeks I had begun to doubt. &lt;span style="font-style: italic;"&gt;I love you. &lt;/span&gt;Even when I had begun to doubt my own words, I still went back to him, I let him take me in his arms.. Why...&lt;br /&gt;"Why" was the question I was asking myself before then, when everything crashed between me and Chelsea. "Why" will be the question I learnt to loathe. "Why" is the question I'll always ask, to find no answer.&lt;br /&gt;Hmhm, how quaint. I begin a diary entry, and the first thing I begin to talk about is my reminiscing of the old times.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/15612871-112454820169934443?l=narikia.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://narikia.blogspot.com/feeds/112454820169934443/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=15612871&amp;postID=112454820169934443' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/15612871/posts/default/112454820169934443'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/15612871/posts/default/112454820169934443'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://narikia.blogspot.com/2005/08/him.html' title='Him'/><author><name>Narikia</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/06516335411384014183</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='32' height='29' src='http://img.photobucket.com/albums/v708/angelcyn/Follow%20Me/zImage9a.jpg'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry></feed>
