I can see her, the young girl lying on her plain blue bed spread with the pen in her hand- doodling on a scrap of paper. She’s so young yet she’s wasting her life away doing nothing. She should be out there having fun, getting drunk, partying till dawn like a normal teenager. But instead she’s in here just wasting her life away. Instead of homework she writes stories, stories about fiction characters that left long ago, long ago left a show that it’s not cool to watch. And why does she do this?
It’s a bit about love.
Instead of having a favourite band whose CD she plays over and over again she has the sound track to a musical no one has heard of. She knows all the words and sings along, thinking about the times gone by. This girl isn’t normal by any stretch of the imagination, that’s true enough. She probably can’t tell you who’s at number one but she can quote you Merry Christmas Dr. Spiller any day of the week. And if you ever ask her why all she’ll say is:
It’s a bit about love.
Normally you would picture a teenage girl’s room being covered with the latest pop stars, some pictures of their friends and hunky Hollywood actors. But not her. All over one wall it’s like a shrine to one person, one star no one’s heard of. All her friends know she’s weird and obsessive. Wasting all the ink and paper printing out more pictures to stick to her wall. The same smiling face staring down at her every day of every week. Kind of ironic that the person she idolises so was playing a woman being stalked which is what all her friends accuse her of doing. And why all the pictures? Why does she need to see this woman all the time?
It’s a bit about love.
She has travelled all over the country to see this woman. Sure she has made some good friends, seen some good plays and generally had a fun time but mainly it’s still all about her. About the girl. The woman. The obsession. The reason she’s stopped living for the past three years. The reason she’ll probably never live again. If you really want to know why
It’s a bit about love.
Somehow nothing else seems to matter to her apart from this one thing in her life. Every day it’s all that runs through her mind. Get up, see pictures, check post for a reply or the long awaited script- almost a year she’s waited for that reply but never gives up hope, she goes to school and scrawls down ideas for fan fiction when she really should be working, runs home, checks the post again and realises there is still nothing, goes on the computer to talk to her obsessive friends, write up her strange little stories and watches some episodes with her in. At night she dreams dreams filled with images of her. I can see you there wondering why, wondering what’s gone wrong in this young girls head.
It’s a bit about love.
Love. That’s what it is too her. It’s love. Everyone she meets can never compare to the woman on the wall, the obsession, and the little picture of perfection. In reality she knows that she can never be with her. In reality she knows that she is only fifteen and all alone. In real life she knows that the one person who holds power to destroy her doesn’t know she exists. All to well she remembers the incident she’d rather forget. She remembers building the event up in her head, she remembers the way the computer broke and kicked her off, she remembers the way not one of her crappy questions got asked and she remembers the scissors just lying there on the bed. One sharp cut that didn’t hurt as much as it did inside. She remembers the shame she felt the first time she wrote down how easily this woman could break her fragile world.
It’s a bit about love.
She knows that it’s not really love- not in the eyes of the people who care. She knows that they all think it’s some kind of obsession, just a teenage crush. And that hurts more because to her it’s love. To her this is real. This is it. This is all she’s got.
It’s a bit about love. A bit about obsession and a bit about…love.
Oh please don’t tell me that I’m too young to feel the things I’m feeling,
That I’m too young to understand loves meaning.
It’s no more than a passing whim,
A spark, a flare that’s quickly dimmed,
That my whole life’s ahead of me:
There’s so much left to do and see.
Don’t tell me, that what I fear is mere infatuation
It’s just some kind of juvenile fixation
I should be out there on the town,
That I’m too young to settle down.
Well my friend I got news for you,
It’s not a faze I’m going through.
It’s love, I felt it from the start
It’s love, I felt it in my heart.
The moment she walked through that door
it was like we met somewhere before
I don’t know how one thing’s for sure
I’ve never ever felt this good, never felt this way before.
So please don’t tell me, no no no no no
That I’m not in love