Yesterday, I saw 'The Curious Case of Benjamin Button', and, as I suspected, it was a beautiful movie.

Impressive in both its simplicity and fantasy, the narrative focused on how we evolve as people, and how each one of us is unique in their own way. Age was obviously also a prominent feature of the movie, following Benjamin's strange beginnings all the way throughout his life. While watching it, I realised that for the first time, I did now know how the movie would end. Nor did I know HOW I wanted it to finish. However, once it came down to it, the story finished perfectly, and just as beautifully as I would have liked it to. It wasn't a dramatic ending, nor was it an action packed, fantasy filled film; it was simply another portrayal of love, friendship and the hardships of human nature through the eyes of one special individual.

Watching it, I went through all these stages within my own mind. First, I was filled with despair at the thought of getting old. It's not something I am ready to face, and I imagine that it's a fact of life that I won't be able to reconcile myself with until I'm much, much older. At least, I hope so. I remember something my mum told me a few years ago while I was watching her apply anti- wrinkle creams and specially formulated makeup to help prevent the ageing of skin. She said:
"You look at yourself in the mirror, and you see yourself getting older, even though inside, you still feel 20 years old."

I don't know if that's just her view, but it scared me, because I have always assumed that when I became older, I would be ready for it mentally. I would accept it, and even embrace it, content with the knowledge that I had lived my life to the best of my ability, and now I had all this time to look forward to a happy retirement with the ones I loved. I guess everyone takes life and its stages differently.

But also, during the movie, I was also filled with unexpected excitement, especially as I saw Benjamin begin to truly live his life as he 'aged'. He visited Paris, Russia, America and many other countries, experimenting with different jobs and experiencing various cultures. It just got me thinking how much I still want to do, and how much there still IS to do. There is more to life than finishing university, getting a job and starting a family, all the while saving up for your retirement.

I guess that's just my two cents.

Recently having read a fantastic blog entry by one of my closest friends, I realised, for the millionth time, that nothing makes me happier than reading and writing. Her entry, as superb in its use of language as it was for the depth of feeling and true honesty she revealed, is really the type of writing I should be focusing on; self exploration through prose.

So, V, thanks for the inspiration, and I think I'll do a similar re cap of my years thus far. Your emotional and frank recollections actually tugged on a few heartstrings, because although I certainly knew the general gist of your troubles, I didn't quite begin to grasp their significance and the toll they took on you until of late.

Now, me.

2005:

From what I remember, it was the year of VCE, of study scores and of slowly becoming adult. It was also a time where I first began to feel the very cliched and common pain of heartbreak, and the slow disintegration of a relationship with a person I loved very much, even if I did not know it. In terms of friends, I was still close to a girl I thought was honest and kind, and did not give much thought to any stories circling around me. I was very naive, and in my ignorance, I mist admit, I lived a reasonably content life.

2006:

A year I would not repeat, ever. It was the most confusing and painful time of my life, a time I had absolutely no idea who I was, what I wanted and where I was heading. I was a mess; I cared for nothing. I immersed myself in the world of books, lost myself in the stories of other, happier characters. I lost friends and sought solace in the arms of boys, who did nothing for me. I studied my heart out; never had I, or have I since, put in as much energy, time, effort and heart into my studies as I did in year 12. Driven partly by ambition and partly by the need to forget my life, I never enjoyed school more. I have also never loved anyone as much since that time.

2007:

The start of new beginnings!! With the start of University and the promise of a whole new life, I was filled with an optimism I have not felt since year 9. Finally, I was pursuing something I never really realised I should be doing until I was thrust into doing it; by not getting into law, I sent that (dream? I would have once called it that, but now I'm not so sure...) ambition to the back of my mind, instead concentrating on my writing, and actually discovering that there was something that I loved to the point of studying it, just for its pleasure. Although Uni did not turn out to be the all consuming, party experience I expected it to be, I nevertheless started to unearth a group of friends who I felt would stay with me for life. I was happy in my relationship, I was happy with my new and old friends. University itself felt very confusing, the workload sometimes unmanageable and the concepts so new and difficult to grasp; but I made it :)

2008:

Finally, the year that everything fell into place, in terms of academics. I realised that I want to be a journalist, and that I love writing more than I would love the lavish lifestyle I could only get from Law. I made a whole new group of friends, all with similar interests and views, and I completely and irrevocably fell in love with my course. However, as per usual, I once again got lost in terms of love, and watched as my relationship began to unravel. Despite wanting with all my heart to fix it, I could not mend the cracks, and finally, it fell apart. What followed was confusion, pain and a lot more unnecessary commotion which, to this day, is unresolved.

2009:

Still feeling quite confused, but I'm working through it. Happiness will come.

Ok.

Despite the encouragement of a very good and wise friend of mine, I have not being updating my blog with the regularity I hoped to achieve when I re-opened it. This is, of course, partly due to my laziness, but also the unfortunate consequence of working so much I cannot even be bothered to turn on a computer, let alone sit down, ponder my day/life/ whatever it may be, and jot it down as food for thought.

However, today, despite feeling sick and worn out, I had an inspiration; why not write about the joys of creativity and the importance of actually pursuing and working within a field you actually have interest in, rather than settling for a job that only reaps monetary rewards? Seriously, working full time at a brain dead, dreary job, where the only joy comes from asking the customer where she is going tonight, does have its repercussions. For one, not even the money I am making makes it worthwhile, because I know that at the end of the day, I only have a few hours at home to unwind, and then I'm back for round 1000000000000000000000.

So, to all those out there who believe that making money anywhere, from anything and at anytime, and actually have choices not to, is the most important thing in the world, I'd strongly urge you to reconsider, sit down, and follow what you're passionate about. Nothing beats being paid to do what you love.

Love is like a tree. It always blooms in spring, grows to become exotic and colourful in summer, cools down to the subtle hues of greens, tans and burnt oranges in autumn and freezes over in winter, bare, cold and resistant to any warmth. Looking at the couple sitting across from me, I believe that they’re in summer, because she’s no longer smiling shyly, but coquettishly, and he’s comfortable enough to lay a heavy, tanned hand just above her knee.

I glance away, looking around Cookie Lounge, taking in the smells of pizza and bacon wafting from the kitchen, mixing with the wonderful aromas of coffee and liqueur. Occasionally I can smell the bitter stench of beer, but unlike in my youth, it doesn’t repulse me anymore. Hell, I’ve drank a few bottles since then.

The atmosphere is foreign to me, but I can feel myself slowly relaxing, adapting. I sip my Kaluha with milk, savouring the chocolate taste. I always did have a sweet tooth. I’m becoming giddier as I finish my fifth drink; catching the eye of an attractive businessman type, I smile a shallow, hollow and flirtatious smile, and am about to crook my finger invitingly when I hear my name.

“Anna…?” The voice is familiar, yet deeper to the one I remember. I can smell the cologne, Bruce, even before I see him.

“Hello Andrew.” Turning around slowly, I want to prolong the moment for as long as I can. My heart is pounding a mile a minute, and I feel like crying, but I don’t. I look up at him, taking in his shaggy blonde hair and eyebrow piercing, recalling the small ‘bum fluff’ that he used to call his ‘beard’. The little black and blonde hairs have matured, forming a goatee where his chin piercing used to be. His face, although still as smooth as a baby’s, has lost most of its roundness and hollowed out to give him a more masculine edge. He is not handsome, but oh, is he attractive.

“I didn’t realise that you were back in Australia.” It’s such an ironic statement to make that I accidentally snort the drink up my nose, spitting and coughing all over my new ruffled silk, cream jacket. He grabs a serviette and wipes at the jacket, taking care to avoid my breasts.

“I see you haven’t changed that much.” He says, a note of laugher in his voice. But his robin egg blues betray his anxiety, and his voice catches a little as I meet his eyes. His fashion sense has also changed; he’s wearing a buttery soft, cream shirt, rolled up at the elbows, just as I like it. His jeans, although old, fit him like second skin, and he has finally learned not to expose his underwear. Or perhaps that is only because he is out in public. I don’t know. I don’t know him anymore.

Andrew sits down, not looking at me. He’s suddenly finding the small cigarette hole burnt into the wooden table a very fascinating phenomenon.

“I can’t believe I ran into you, here of all places! You don’t like fancy lounges…” But I stop, because I can’t tell him what he does and doesn’t like anymore. It’s funny how easily I slipped into that role as soon as I saw him. It’s as if those six years have never happened. I can still see his room, the double bed made up beautifully with a set of brand new black, white and brown sheets and the brown elephant rug he bought at the discount store in Hoppers Crossing lying next to the bed, covering the otherwise cold, wooden floor. I can picture the fifty candles, costing only four dollars, but so effective, burning merrily on his furniture, and the smell of cannabis incense filling my nose with its sickly sweetness.

“Would you have tried to find me if we hadn’t bumped into each other now?” He asks casually, and I try to pretend that’s exactly what this meeting is; casual, fun and comfortable.

I don’t want to answer him, because I don’t know what to say. From the moment I set foot on the airplane in Frankfurt, knowing that I was going to be back in Melbourne in twenty hours, I didn’t think about anything or anyone else. But would I have contacted him?

“Andrew…it’s been so long. Sometimes it’s good to forget.” God, am I a hypocrite. I haven’t even forgotten that tie I gave him for his twentieth birthday, the shiny, smooth, silk black one with the intense orange lines, sewed in diagonally and spaced out every seven centimetres. Or the one CD he always played in his car, ‘Ministry of Sound: 2007’, because he couldn’t be bothered burning another one, even though we were both sick to death of ‘Changes’, ‘Deep Throat’ and ‘Put your hands up for Detroit’. I would nag him to at least let me burn something of mine, but he’d always say, “Naaaaaaaah. Baby, no offence, but you have terrible taste in music. But you’re beautiful, so it’s ok.” That used to make me laugh so much, because every time I was bad at something, for instance playing pool, or got something wrong, he’d say, “That’s ok, because you’re beautiful,” and give me a big smack on the cheek, all wet and sloppy like.

Now, the candlelight from the antique glass chandelier bathes us in a golden light, his blonde hair shining silver, my highlighted hair a soft caramel.

“I regretted it straight away, you know. When you screamed at me to have the nerve to let you get on that plane, I wanted to prove to you that I could do it. That I could turn away from you, like you always expected me to. It was the worst decision I ever made.” He can’t look at me, nor I at him. The pain’s still too raw, still makes me tear up. Not sob hysterically everyday like I used to, and then just quietly every few weeks or so, until it gradually faded into an ache I felt especially when in the company of another man.

“I was going to propose the day you told me you were being transferred to Germany for a few years. The news hit me so hard, I couldn’t forgive you. But as soon as you got on the plane and out of sight, I tried calling you, but you wouldn’t answer. I called and called.” I know this, because I felt my phone vibrate for a good fifteen minutes before we were told to shut them off. And after, I just didn’t turn it back on. As soon as I got to Singapore for the stop over, I placed it under the running water to ruin it for good, and then carelessly thew it in the bin. It still didn’t erase his face or his voice or even his number from my mind.

I place my hand over his. Andrew finally turns around and looks at me, so hopefully that my heart hurts. It must show in my face, because as soon as I begin to respond, he cuts me off. “Don’t say it! There’s someone else, isn’t there? As if there wouldn’t be, look at you! I don’t know what came over me, I’m sorry. I just saw you, and I thought that finally I can say something to fix what I did. I thought…I just thought…that it would be enough…” He hangs his head, and I can feel what he feels.

“Andrew. Look at me.” And he does, slowly. “I’m sorry, but we can’t go back.” He’s about to interrupt again, but I quickly continue. “But, we can try again.”

He smiles, and suddenly we’re in spring, and those six years never happened.

It's a funny concept, avoidance. We all avoid something in life, whether consciously or not.

I have long since realised that my avoidance is primarily exercised when it comes to anything unpleasant.

For instance, I don't like conflict between people, especially my friends and myself. Lately, I've not been faced, but rather thrown head first into a situation I do not particularly want to be in the middle of, despite any assurances that nothing will have changed. Considering my recent not-too-happy and confusing circumstances, I think that including me in some sordid and unrealistic fantasy will only end up hurting everyone involved.

So what do I do? I avoid it. I can't forget it, even though I want to, but I still can't bring myself to face it head on, talk it out, make sure that everything I am thinking and want to know in return is out in the open. I acknowledge my part in this situation, however, for once, I think that it is not my selfishness that got me into it, but rather, will help to get me out. Because I know what I want, and in this instance, I can't get it, so therefore, I won't try.

I also avoid anything that will cause me pain. Understandable, many may think. But really, in my case, it has caused others a lot of pain in the process. Only a few of my friends are aware of my, uh, issues :P, and as much as they may piss me off at times, I realised it's me that I'm equally annoyed with.

Hm.

For those who know me, I am one of those people who simply does not tolerate silence.

To me, silence is not the absence of sound: it is the compression of all that cannot be heard, yet still exists.

Being a person who enjoys knowing what others are thinking, I do not understand those who do not feel the need to speak or move, content inside their own private world, thinking secrets I will only hear if they wish to tell me.

When in company, I often fill the silences, however comfortable or uncomfortable they may seem, simply to continue a conversation filled with mindless dribble and wasteful words.

I'm slowly learning that silence is not necessarily a bad thing; in fact, its potential to reflect more than words is both ironic and true.

So.

It has been a year and a half since I have last written in this blog.

I knew that would happen, but I was hoping it wouldn't. For the life of me, I cannot understand how I can be so passionate about having a career in journalism but at the same time being totally unable to commit to sustaining a simple blog.

V, Biya, thanks for being my faithful readers, but I understand that even you have your limitations.

Lol, and V, I just read your comments about my Target piece or whatever it is, and thanks for your criticism. Can always count on you to bring me back to earth :P. By the way, that piece was NOT my best work. It's amazing how clearly you see your faults a year later. At least I know the 15 grand I'm forking out for my university education is somewhat useful.

Aaaaaanyway, as V recommended, I should publicly docoument my life. Hmm.