SpoilerDay 2


Hello, Journal. It's me again. Ryanti. I know you remember me because I can see all of the words that I wrote yesterday on the pages before. Words stand still after being written. Unlike myself. I suppose it doesn't matter who you are in the end. You can't stand stoic forever, but words can. You age, but words don't. I suppose, in the sense, that makes the actions of words stronger than any action taken by men. That's what my father taught me. Like always, he's right.

I ended up staying at Ms. Leklouth's place longer then intended. She's my violin Tudor. I thought mother would grow red in the face over worry of me not coming home at the usual time on violin days. It turned out she was delighted. I love my mother, journal. I love to see the happiness on her face when she realizes her boy desires to learn and prosper rather than waste my life on some damned crusade. Father once told me he was like that when he was young, that mother is trying to teach me to do what my father later wished he did when he was my age. If that's true, then at one time, my father must of been in my shoes, feeling what I feel every day. That's impossible, though. He didn't my ears. My tail.

Ms. Leklouth is a hyurian midlander. Like everyone else here. I don't know why I even bother saying that. Why write the fact that she is one down when everyone else is? I should just write 'I am a Miqo'te'.

I had to wake up early, and like most days, I spent a hour in front of my mirror, pulling out little tiny bits of hair that had fallen off of my scalp and floating around in the loft of it. Shined my nails. Took a long bath. Laid my vest down on the chair and scratch at tiny stains with my shined nails, which meant I had to shine them AGAIN. Scrapped at my ears, dragged at my tail until it hurt, until it was nice and round, until it had no bad hair. I hate bad hair.

Ms. Leklouth made me take apart my violin and put it back together before I played today. I had issues with the peg box, and trying to tune the strings with the correct amount of tightness, and fitting the pieces of wood together. The instrument is complicated; I wish I could of been there to see it become invented. It took me about two hours, because she told me about the pieces as I put them together. I love her. So much. She doesn't look at my ears. Doesn't make me hurt. Doesn't hurt me.

That was supposed to be the whole lesson today, but I wanted to play. I wanted to play the strings, to let my mind know that my hands can create something beautiful in the hair. I needed that piece of mind. The piece that I am working on is stubborn. It doesn't require swift finger moments as much as extreme finesse. Me, being an emotionally distraught teenager with raging hormones (I'm trying to make myself feel better here) I could not accomplish that sense of calm, sense of peace, sense of finesse in order to play it appropriately. I got angry. Frustrated. Sad. I hate that feeling. So then there was hate as well...

She helped me. Helped me improve, helped and supported me until my fingers were too weary to continue. It was just one day, after all... there will always be another. Before I left, I asked her if she could please play the song I was trying so hard to perform. She did. I sat there and watched with all of my attention.

It was absolutely divine. Her bow was piercing the wall of my heart with the nails of a goddess. I felt so helpless before her. My lips trembled. My heart sang to her notes. How, journal? How must my hands play the instrument that sounds like music, and then that very same instrument when in hers, sound like heaven? She is a beautiful soul. Bless her. I never met her husband, he always seems to be away when I go there...

So that's my day. I came back home to a warm bowl of soup, and Genivo was kind enough to serve me cheesecake today. I always saw him as my grandfather. My real grandfather is always grumpy when he sees me, journal.


But now I'm tired, and I still have to catch up on my studies and read this book about economic distribution... yay. It has to do with what our family does for a living. I see it everywhere. Boxes and crates and toys and hats and gloves and boots. Now I'm rambling. I wish I could keep writing in this journal and not study. My gut feels squeezed when I close this book. Like I'm parting with a good friend... to go read a stupid book.


Good night, Journal.

Your friend,
Ryanti