They don't act like it's Christmas

It's hard for me to write now, especially after I've been narrating all my thoughts only my head since the begining - the begining of my illness, to which you must excuse all gramatical errors, for I'm afraid my fingers are cold and weak, and my mind is blurry, playing with reality and dream.I make my "illness" sound so grave, but in fact the worse of it has been my fevers. I suppose in the beginning I was annoyed with it, as you see in my previous blog, but soon I became quite still and non-talkative, infact I was in high enough spirits.I guess you could say it's the book I've been reading. Books are strange things to me, they are some sort of fuel to my engine, they give me words where once there was none. My mind suddenly becomes an open book to me, and I narrate events to myself, discovering and noting things I would not of quite notted before. Therefore, I write to you after returing from ritual Christmas events, not even taking the pleasure of calling my love, of so long a wait to consult with him. I knew as I came home that I must write this to all of you, although many my not see this but the people who truely need to.I curse because even now the narration slipps from me, and all I feel is tired and aching. I wish to retire into a dream like state and return to the world I have been in all this time; reflecting.It's funny how illness can do things to you, how it can give you courage even when indeed you are most weak; infact like I said I think it was the book, as, things seem much easier in comparison to these peoples trails.I suppose it really started on the second night of my illness, when Keane had gotten into his sour moods again. I remember it did not hurt so much, because I was with him only online, and text could not sting me as harshly as spoken words. When the matter was suddenly broken, requested to be immediatly I dismissed, I suddenly began talking about nature, about the things I enjoyed about the seasons. From these images I grew strength, and suddenly instead of falling from a cliff I was drifting slowly, and instead of branches from trees catching hold of my harshly, they were instead just trying to catch me gently into their outstretched arms.What is it about a tree that could give me so much tranquiliity? That could make my tears suddenly stop, and could mend both lovers' troubled hearts. To these questions I am unsure, but I remember asking Keane, once, if indeed nature cared for me and he simply replied, "Of course it does, you are a part of it; you come from it." And then I suddenly understood; it was, indeed, true.And so from this inspiring book, that is so much linked with nature, I gathered my strength for the holidays. It was but two days ago, I believe, that after reading this book that linked siblings as such, that I took to writing a letter for my brother, one that was very personal indeed.To what it expressed I will be brief, but I will tell you that change in my home is so subtle. I sometimes envy, you, Jade, probably unjustly, but it is because things in your household are so very open and confronted, whereas everything in mine is like a poison that creeps up on you over the years. A poison such as when it is seen from a child's eyes, the child never forgets, and yet cannot cry when the rest of her family pretends it's not there.But it is.And this letter truely was not meant to bond my brother and I, it was simply a warning to him and I reminder. To what I will not say, for as I told him in the letter it was only him that much know, and no one else. It's funny how fate works in such a way, for how my brother found the letter was strange in itself. It was right when I had come up from the bastement, tired and worried that he would not like the letter, that he had gotton home and made his way downstairs. I did not know if my letter would do any good in his life, it seemed the ways my household and family worked was behind my eyes, and yet I could catch at it in glimpes. It seems now I can catch glimpses of how pretend everyone is, and all the wrongdoings. There is not much I can do, but I unintentionally did something between my brother and I.It was to my surprise and shock when he came into my room and kissed me on the cheek: My brother? A kiss? No, not him, not the one who would dare not even hug me. He told me that he loved me too, and even as he said his I was unsure if this bond we had created would last. My worries were counteracted though, for just this morning, Christmas morning, he came and kissed me on both cheeks with a smile, exclaiming the words: "Merry Christmas" and I was somewhat settled, although now I still wonder how long it will last. I will, though, make it a little task of mine to try and write to him...I feel now this is urgent in my heart; I hope this urgency lasts.I suppose most of my discoveries would have to be discovered today, since, as you know, I am cursed with a horrible memory. It does not make it worse that my mind is cloudy, and I often slip into a state of being that leaves me staring off into space, thinking of nothing in particular.The things I discovered today, on my car ride home were indeed things of great knowlegde; of great understanding. I also learned today that the mind and heart of a writter harbours and shelters many lives, so as such the characters of his or her stories are constantly alive and are not settled to rest until such stories are done. I also discovered my deep conection to the wilderness, and bitterly realized that I long for my old home, up north, where tall, old trees still stood, or still stand, one that was once a small shrubb in my grubby little hands. A willow tree, my mom had wanted, for she knew I loved willow trees. And we, as a family, had planned to watch it grow together, had planned to watch it reach for the sky so that I could swing from it's long silky branches. I suddenly know now why my mom had wanted to move to there, so far away that it was from my family's reach. I was sheltered from them, at least, for a time. And there I would never go back, unless by some chance in the future I would gain the opportunity to do so. These thoughts are futile though, and left unsaid until another time.For now I will tell you that I realized something that could link to me now, in the present. I noted how so much of myself was concealed from the world, and how so little of it I could tell to the people I love. For the longest time I've known that my life had been divided between the city, and the town, and that I had struggled to let my heart settle in the city, where all the people I cared about were. I realized just recently, on that car ride home, how true that was. That I was indeed a child born of the trees and the wilderness, suddenly pricked up by the stars and turned to fire something so seemingly an enemy of the forest. If you read this book I have read, it'd be fearful to see how much this coincides with that of the story. I know you probably don't understand my words, but I will say them anyway. I also wondered at this visage, this being of fire that would stand strong against a fiery storm - am I really this? I began to think that maybe, just maybe, I had created this for myself, or at least had asked the stars to make me their daughter and give me their strength, so that I could bear leaving my childhood behind. It's funny how those things coincided, not funny as in haha, but funny as in the ironic way.Even now I wonder which way I should look, for both I know hold solitute in their own nature. But I supposed it was good of my to take on this form of fire, because that which I had witnessed was not for a child who was gently raised by the wind and black-capped chickadees. Before I move on to the subject of my family, I will add that on the winter of my moving here to this house, I saw for the last time a black-capped chickadee pirched on the brances of a tree in the front of my house, it seemed to stare at me, almost as if it could not recongnize my face. I think I said goodbye to it that day, although I'm not sure. I just remember that I was quite sad. I will also tell you what became of the wind, for now it does not speak to me, nor acknowlegde me. For a time I found it silly that the wind would even have or bear any ill to me, but now I think it holds a bitterness towards me; I've always seen the wind as somewhat childish, in this strange way. And in fact all my thoughts were dismissed as strange. I'm a strange girl, strange girl indeed if at seventeen I believe I could talk to the wind and the Earth.
Now my family, and this saddens me the greatest.
I wont go into details, as I imagine noone has probbaly reached this far into my blog, scared off by my lengthly words.
As I've said before there was always this poisin there, and I don't know where it started. I suppose every family harbours it, but handles it in differernt ways. Even now my mother is in this strange sour mood, she seems so selfish tonight, of all nights. She shouts, "Shut-up, shut-up!" to one of the cats; to which I'm not sure. She even admitted to her fould mood tonight, pondering if it was because of her illness.
I think I've always seen it within my mother's side of the family. There's always people talking behind other peoples back, and I always find I feel sorry for one of them but not so sorry that still I don't blame them for one thing or another. What I see most of all now is that my aunt's need to control can be found inside her children. I wonder to myself even now of my aunts intentions, if indeed she only does these nice things because in her world there is a god that will pass jugdement on her. Especially now I say thanks to the great Spirit that I was tucked away under protective, lovely sheilds that did not bring me under the influence of my mother's side of the family. I also thank my father for this, because that is the way of his side of the family, for they are a little more blunt and much more simple; much more like me, I've always thought.
I know that I was indeed very close to being tightly grapsed by my aunts beliefs, who seemed to force them on anyone who dared came across her path. I see now, in a way, that she is very bitter, but I think she brought that apon herself. Still I think she wishes for pity. I did, though, always see her children as angels, especially the one, who was like a heroine in my eyes. Eventually. though, I saw her roughness and the wrong she did, especially to me. The words she said, especially yesterday, ones that hurt the most. I don't quite remember what she said, because often I blott bad things from my mind, but it went something like this:
"There are only rare times I ever see you in a good mood," she said with laughter, as I stared at her in my sickly, feverish state. I did not laugh in reply. "Uh-oh, doesn't look like she's too happy now," my brother said just as teasingly, although it is strange that I do not hold it against him. They have always thought this of me, my whole mother's side of the family, that I was never in a good mood. I know realize what the must think of me - a stuck up bitch, maybe? Spoiled to the bone, she is they may think, or even say, if I ever come to their mind. And now I curse myself, because I did not even think to thank my aunt for the nice, expensive scarf she gave me. That's a reason I now don't like Christmas - it's all for show. I did not thank my aunt, I know, because I was most likely too sick to. Of course not many people took that into consideration today, even as my fever reached an all-time high. I must say I feel strangely bitter about this, and I feel guilty for it. I suppose that's what made me snap at my mother, and grumble a few things to my father. I don't think I did too much harm.
I'm having so much trouble telling these things to you, in fact I want to get this done as fast as possible. I feel like I'm boring you - I know, a writter knows when their story lacks interest, and when their writing style is boring and annoyingly repetative. This strains me, but I suppose I will do a little change in this story, and tell you of a little girl.
This child was once spoiled, she once annoyed me in such a way that I wanted nothing to do with her. Today she was at my house, sitting on my couch, just beside me. Indeed I could see how much she had changed, how much her sisters and brother had also grown. I now see all of them as very good children. The little girl, youngest of the sisters but older then the brother, smiled at me as we sat together. I don't remember of much we talked about, but I remember that she kept on smiling, even as she explained to me that all her Christmas gifts had been taken from her by her father. She explained how they would be given to the other, younger children in the family. When I told her she could have any one of my bears, she laughed and declinded. I wanted to give her something, anything, so I walked into my gameroom, dismissing thoughts of giving her a beautiful angel teddy bear. Don't suddenly think I am selfish to not give it to her, because indeed I worried that her sisters would be jealous if I gave her such a thing, and I worried that her father would also take that from her. It was a gift I would maybe give her when I have something to give them all. My eyes did wonder to a hand puppet Kou-san had given to me for my birthday. It was a cute raindeer with a red nose, even now I oddly miss it, thinking I could turn and see it there still. I hold gifts very precious, and I thought to myself that this child had given up her gifts, so I would give up mine. I showed it to her and she explained that she had one just like it, when I offered it to her she was so reluctant, but I could see it in her eyes: the longing.
I still find it funny, how nothing is ever said aloud, and yet it is, somewhere just out of earshot, said in such a way that is so subtle, and yet so obvious.
Even as she accepted the gift, she asked me, "Will I be in trouble?" No, you will not! This in mine, and mine to give - take it. I hope she still has it, and I pray that her father doesn't take it from her little hands, accussing her of stealing it from my house, or something.
Now as I read I feel guilt, I feel like in some way I'm making myself sound like some grand heroine, or some saint. I know that you all know, indeed, I am not. Indeed I have failed so many times, so many times that it has stained my heart. In any of case, my mind is struck by fever now, and I cannot think so clearly.
I'll tell you of how my ears endured my aunts house, the screams and the laughter, the banging and the shouting. My ears are so sensitive; it was so hard of me not to suddenly shout at them to shut-up. The book was the only thing that kept me going.
Now that I'm on the topic I'll tell you another story. A story about the door to my front house, that was old an stubborn, needing a slight push to close. I had even grown accoustumed to closing all doors as such with my hip, giving it a finish light push to coax it in. The door is no longer like that, and I will tell you how.
I discovered yesterday, I believe, because my dad came home from work, I think it was, and told me in an very angry tone about how the day I was out, my aunts had come over. He was asleep upstairs, after a long day at work, when he heard the banging on the door. They were hollaring and screaming, he said, idiots he said. He said he could not believe my mother could not hear them, for surely the whole neighbourhood did. I think he was just coming down the stairs before they realized that the door, was, indeed open. The door unfortunately had been broken by their torment. I speak to you as the self you regconize: my dad waz soooooo pissed, u shoulda seen his face, eh. "Oh, were you sleeping Bill?" One asked, I think my dad told me his reply he only thought of at the time in his head: No shit. He told them to leave from the back door on the way out, but Gigi did not, and on her way out, he said, she slammed the great thing shut. Then it all came down and my dad then had to fix it. In the middle of winter, he cursed; I wish I could of been there to help him.
The way I talk is as if only my mother's side of the family has some dark secrets to tell, but if my father's side does then it is small, at least to what I can see.
My dad's side of the family are simple people, as I have said, they do not complicate their lifes with even that of the city. My dad's siblings don't live here, the closet lives in Richmond Hill.
This is where the question of who really noticed how ill I was today comes to question. My mom wanted to leave early tonight, even I was surprised. I was enjoying my stay, despite the fact I was only reading. There were things corrupt there too, but it was less, and much more outspoken. Everyone there knew my aunt is rather...bitchy, and often she likes to have things her way, but she definitely does not hide this. The youngest, my uncle, seems to have this darkness over him, this curse that I cannot speak of because it hurts to much. Tears spring into my eyes even now because of what he has lost, because indeed it was a part of us all. Her, the house, the woods beyond, the dog...and to be betrayed by that...I cannot go on, to know his story is another in itself.
I take a breath, and get back to what I was saying. My mother left early tonight because she complained she was sick when I asked her on the carride home. I opened my mouth, shocked. I had endured the day only without such a peep here and there. Maybe in a way I was a bit pretend myself, for a time, but I truely did want to please my Grandma, and after sometime my happiness there was geniuine. My cousins did not help it, though, because I could see their lack of understanding for many things, things I will not go into, but they were definitly not ever respectful. Yes, spoiled, but forever I will love them, and I feel the loss of seeing my little, innocent, cousin growing to a boy that I dreaded, for now he was indeed a teen. I can still see his innocence though, underneith that mask. I think his sister had part in taking that a way a little, and in fact now I fear for him.
In this family, indeed, is where my mom lay her anger, she explained later. She said in fact my cousins' mother was, "Pissing me off!" as she, I think, put it. I had always saw that woman as a respectable person, in fact I saw her and her husband in a fine light and often felt sorry that they had to deal with what their children put them through, especially the older one.
My mother had said that their mother was showing off the expensive things that she had bought for them, and yet had only given me a picture frame. In fact it was my cousin who had given it to me, she said so herself, and told me that she put care into picking it out for me. In fact I felt guilty that I had gotten her nothing and I know this is no excuse, but I feel that maybe if I was not so much under the weather, I would of thought to do so.
It was not better that I told my mom that my cousin had been behind the picture frame, and in fact I cherished it in some way; because it had thought in it. She then was more upset because they had not bothered to get me anything; I hope you see now what I meant before, about everything being all for show. I definitly do not need anything from them, and do not ask it of them. I am not their children, and even I would not give a niece or nephew such expensive things and my mother expected from them. The rest of my father's family say it bluntly enough, that they, my cousin's parents, complain about lack of money, when they seem to have the right amount to spend it on rather expensive things.
I'm at a loss now, for words, but I suppose I should tell you what happened to that door, because I forgot to. My dad did fix it, better then before, he says, because now it slids gently into place, almost as if it fears protesting. As if it had been beaten into shape.
And to you my friends, I leave these final words. There is so much to say, and yet I will only spare my strength to tell you this:

I want you all to know that in this world I consider you the firm rock to which I stand. I want you to know that within you I do not see these faults, because I know that each and every one of you is innocent, victum to this world. When you, Jade, get mad at me for not phoning, or for never asking me to hang out, I take this bitterly, because you know that I will never truely know when you are free to do so, I can never really guess when you will suddenly have the day off. I do not hold it against you though, because I see it is some unspoken cry for attention, attention I felt for so long I could never give you, and yet I'd try too, in failure. I hope you know, that on that I day I told you I thought of you as one of those companions you'd read of in a book. In my feverish state I cannot think of which book to compare to the way I mean. I suppose you can discover this in the story I have previously written. To me you are that companion that I would always consider first amoung all others to go ahead with me on such an adventure, if it were to arise. I don't know what that means to you, but if you do read this book then I will tell you now that you are to me what ben and john is to red. I hope this enough to let you know, and to make you a bit warmer inside; to give you some of what meek strength I have to offer you.
Keane, you know very well who you are to me. You are intertwined within my heart, and I tell you I would never take you on such an adventure because I would worry for you so. You are my compainion, but I want you all to know that each of you is a companion in your own special way. It is so very hard to explain, but I say this: What is a tree without each one of it's branches, especially those few, strong, sturdy ones that sprout from the trunk? And if one was to break off, it would leave a scar on the tree, or a huge gap in its foiliage that looked so wrong and out of place. I hope that explains it. I don't know how to explain who you are to me, but indeed you are that enchantment that was placed onto me. Many call me a fool for the things I've done and continue to do for you, but is that not the way it is in all the books? The main character will fall madly inlove and the others will see it as foolish, exept for those people who the main character trusts the most.
I'm sorry to put myself as a main character in a story, but I'm sure to all of you, you may find yourself as a main character to your own story.
Keane, I want to tell you...that yes, you hurt me, but also that you must rid yourself of this pain. Lately I have noticed that, yes, indeed, your guilt is what has made you even more angry and much more egdy. Now it has become as bad that I cannot even tell you when I find something wrong, for immediatly you will not want the blame put on you, and you will not want to be accused. I want to tell you now that this mad me realize how much a burden my pain is to you, because constantly you want to be innocent, constantly you wish to be the one that cries, because I see now that this hurts less then being the one that hurts. You are strong, and I admire you. I leave you with a promise that none of this is in fact your fault, and that you are subject to a cruel fate. I beg of you to let go of your guilt, and know that I am definitly still by your side for a reason. I must admit, I was bitter towards you, but now I see more then ever that my pain is trivial, and that most of the time I caused it on myself. How do I ever believe for a moment that those words are yours when you do such things? No, I know they are not, therefore I know for sure I will get stronger. I can only do this if you let go of your guilt, though, because this guilt causes more grief on the both of us. I wish to coax it from you, and to assure you that you have definitly, of all things in this dammed world, not ruined my life. In fact you have given a deep light into it, a deep understanding. I want to say more, but this will be in private, for I am aware now you wait for me, worried. I'm sorry I am taking so long.
To the other swho read this, and many who don't, I swear that you are a branch like that indeed, and I am sorry Em that I did not phone you that night, I'm sorry that I have not been here lately. Don't forget that you are the people I look up to the most, that you are the people who can only ever share common ground with me, because adults really do see from a different world.
Perhaphs, now, I see this, that I am naive.
I do love this world, I do, and my heart carries the sorry of all the injustices in it.
I'm still breathing, I've been finding lately I enjoy the cold breath of winter; it's beautiful.