Welcome to Gaia! ::

So, basically, last year, my Phoenix teacher had her classes write between four and six journal-type spouts of imagination every six weeks. She didn't really care what you wrote about, as long as you wrote something, and let her read just one. She called them 'Never Too Lates,' because she (originally) had us write each journal using a 'theme' from a list she'd handed out at the beginning of the year. I still have all my journals, because they were supposed to all be kept in, whaddya know, a journal!, so yeah.

I felt like some of them were good enough that I'd put them up here. Some are more personal than others, but they're all me. I'm not so much looking for constructive criticism on each piece as its own being, but more of concrit for my overall style and such. I want to know if you like it, what you like, what you didn't like, and why you didn't like it. Of course, how I can make it better is always lovely.

And if you just want to put part of that... Sure. biggrin I'd just prefer if you'd tell me why you don't like it should you decide to post about that, because I can't make it better without knowing what's putting you off.

I'll add an entry tomorrow, because right now... I need to sleep, haha!

Oh! Sorry for not explaining that, I keep forgetting that it's not known as Phoenix everywhere. Phoenix is my school district's GT English program. GT is Gifted and Talented--it's sort of like special ed. Just... for the people who score over about 140ish on their IQ test or whatever it was. [Yes, for however forgetful and random I am, I am still smart.]

BUT NOW. I've got a Never Too Late for people to read. biggrin It's based on Germany and Italy from Hetalia, which belongs to Hidekaz Himaruya. It's a little blurb that took up just about... one page, front and back, in my handwritten journal, including the little drawings.

Even if you're not familiar with Hetalia, it should be written to where you can at least understand the gist of it.

Enjoy!

It's Never Too Late...

xoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxo

.to.look.at.the.stars.

Sometimes, he thinks he remembers something. A small girl in a maid's outfit, ruffles, the soft movements of a deck brush. But the thoughts leave as soon as they come, and he is suddenly awake once more, staring at stars where there should be a ceiling, a familiar Italian snuggled close. For a few moments, he will be bewildered and confused, names he is sure he does not know flitting across his mind.

He will sigh.

He does not wear confusion well, and he is well aware of this. It is a useless emotion anyway, and he does not mind doing away with it--but it often has other plans. His mind will quickly begin to settle itself. This is his routine, and goodness knows how he loves routine.

But sometimes...

Sometimes, when the dream-memories are particularly strong, he will lie awake for a while, examining the stars as if they will tell him what is going on, as if they will answer the questions he burns to know.

Predictably, they tell him nothing, twinkling from far above almost merrily, as if they do know these secrets his own brain hides from him, as if they find amusement in telling him nothing.

He wonders, sometimes, if he is not simply making these things up--but then he rememebers that he doesn't remember, and he is back to square one.

On rare occasions--ones becoming more and more frequent--he will look at the Italian and not see who he knows, but a sweet little girl with a green dress and a white apron, short hair and an impossibly ruffly petticoat. He will blink, will blush and stammer, before finally looking away and cursing his own stupidity.

In return, the Italian will blink, confused, and ask what's wrong. Upon receiving no reply, there will be a prolonged moment of hopeful silence before a sigh breaks it and the pasta on the stove is once again being attended to, the moment soon forgotten.

Was this inspired by Rene Descartes...?

I like it