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Description
Great… another day is gone. Why on Earth? I just keep falling asleep at (from what I gather) five in the morning, and I wake up at two in the afternoon. There’s still some daylight left, but the crux of the matter is just… I just can’t get much done. Once I’m up, I’m just stuck awake until five. Why? is just one of the questions in my mind that I can’t answer.

My name is Oriole… and I’m more androgynous than I’d admit out loud. People mistake me for a girl… often. When they guess correctly that I’m male, they’ll second guess themselves. This is worrisome.

By now, my hair is to my shoulders. I haven’t gotten a haircut since I arrived in Tuscany. It took me weeks to figure out that that’s where I am. Luckily, for me, I know some Latin, so I can get the gist of the Italian that they speak around here. Usually, what I hear is gossip. I’ve heard things that sound like… well, I think it went like chi è quel vagabondo?

All I can get from that is the vagabondo, which is like vagabond, which is basically a hobo. That makes sense, I guess. If I fall asleep on the sidewalk, and stay asleep until siesta… people would probably think I’m some vagrant. Then again, I guess I am one, sort of.

It’s not like I live in a house. I do live on the streets. I had a credit card when I came here, but… I lost it immediately. I pulled it out of my pocket, discovering it for the first time, and it fell from my hand into a grill in the street. And then I slipped and hit my head on said grill. I don’t know how much was on it, but I still kick myself over that. The kicking probably adds to the È matto image…

There’s a girl that comes around and gives me food sometimes. I think she said her name was Bree. I’m not really sure, but she’s pretty nice. She speaks some broken English to me, sometimes.

“What your name, hmm?”

“My name is Oriole. What is your name?” I try not to use conjunctions around her; I figure that it’ll just throw her off if she’s trying to learn English.

“My name Domani. That family name.”

“Ah, my family name is November. What is your given name, Miss Domani?” good manners that lead to food are always the best kind of good manners.

“Bree… Lei sa qualunque italiano?’’

“I… do not understand. I do not understand Italian. Is your name Bree, then?”

“Ah, da dove la sono? You come from where?”

“I do not… I do not know, Bree.”

“Perché?” I didn’t really care which question she was asking, be it who, what, when where, why…

“I could not tell you.”

“Ah… Oriole, hungry? Family has food.”

“I could not intrude, Bree…”

“Bring food.” it wasn’t a question, so I just assumed that what she’d meant was I’ll bring you some food. I hoped that’s what she’d meant, because I was really hungry at that point. She did bring some food. It was meager, just some leftover bread, but I ate it happily.

“Thank you, Bree.”

“Mio piacere, Oriole.” Who even cared what she said? She brought things to keep me from starving.

What else? I have a blanket, now. I try to find a place that’s… not on the side of the road, for one, to go huddle in. It makes it a lot less difficult to maintain a nice image, if I’m not asleep right near everybody else. They seem to know that I’m sleeping like a hobo, but they don’t comment as much if I’m around the corner of some alley. I worry for my safety, but the people here are nice… so I doubt there’d be any trouble from any of them. I hope.

By the way, I’m not normal. I’m sure that as much can be gathered, but the extent of the human mind to grasp… ah, sometimes even I forget. I get wrapped up in my… well, not depression. My misfortune, I should say. At least I can look up at the sky in the evening; I can watch the canvas blend from blue to orange and purple. That should be enough for anyone.

Still, I heard a strange voice, one time. It wasn’t helpful, it just said this, “Oriole, don’t forget Liberty. She is waiting.”

The only issue with saying something like that… is trying to remember who this “Liberty” person is, and then trying not to forget who she is. I have to remember in order to remember. I don’t even know how to go about doing that.

I suspect that she’s the peach-haired girl in my dreams. Don’t get me wrong, the hair isn’t like the inside of the peach, not yellow. It’s more like the outside of a particularly orange-pink one. In any case, I keep dreaming that she’s holding hands and spending time with a black-haired boy. I don’t know who he is, exactly, but I worry for the girl. He seems nice, but… not nice enough. I’m not sure how to describe it.

In any case, that girl seems happy in my dreams. I’m happy to dream about her, but if she is Liberty, I wonder where she is. Why is she waiting, and who is she in the first place? She’s pretty enough, but if she has this strapping blue-eyed boy, why would she give a thought to me? Me with my bleach-blonde hair and scary green eyes, I can’t see why she’d like me at all.

That boy is confident and strong, and I am weak. No comparison.

Even remembering this, I’m crying. I don’t even know why. I don’t understand anything about my circumstances. I remember completely useless things, like Latin and my name… aren’t my sleeping patterns and their contents more important? They seem a lot more pressing. They seem a lot more relevant.

Description
Great… another day is gone. Why on Earth? I just keep falling asleep at (from what I gather) five in the morning, and I wake up at two in the afternoon. There’s still some daylight left, but the crux of the matter is just… I just can’t get much done. Once I’m up, I’m just stuck awake until five. Why? is just one of the questions in my mind that I can’t answer.

My name is Oriole… and I’m more androgynous than I’d admit out loud. People mistake me for a girl… often. When they guess correctly that I’m male, they’ll second guess themselves. This is worrisome.

By now, my hair is to my shoulders. I haven’t gotten a haircut since I arrived in Tuscany. It took me weeks to figure out that that’s where I am. Luckily, for me, I know some Latin, so I can get the gist of the Italian that they speak around here. Usually, what I hear is gossip. I’ve heard things that sound like… well, I think it went like chi è quel vagabondo?

All I can get from that is the vagabondo, which is like vagabond, which is basically a hobo. That makes sense, I guess. If I fall asleep on the sidewalk, and stay asleep until siesta… people would probably think I’m some vagrant. Then again, I guess I am one, sort of.

It’s not like I live in a house. I do live on the streets. I had a credit card when I came here, but… I lost it immediately. I pulled it out of my pocket, discovering it for the first time, and it fell from my hand into a grill in the street. And then I slipped and hit my head on said grill. I don’t know how much was on it, but I still kick myself over that. The kicking probably adds to the È matto image…

There’s a girl that comes around and gives me food sometimes. I think she said her name was Bree. I’m not really sure, but she’s pretty nice. She speaks some broken English to me, sometimes.

“What your name, hmm?”

“My name is Oriole. What is your name?” I try not to use conjunctions around her; I figure that it’ll just throw her off if she’s trying to learn English.

“My name Domani. That family name.”

“Ah, my family name is November. What is your given name, Miss Domani?” good manners that lead to food are always the best kind of good manners.

“Bree… Lei sa qualunque italiano?’’

“I… do not understand. I do not understand Italian. Is your name Bree, then?”

“Ah, da dove la sono? You come from where?”

“I do not… I do not know, Bree.”

“Perché?” I didn’t really care which question she was asking, be it who, what, when where, why…

“I could not tell you.”

“Ah… Oriole, hungry? Family has food.”

“I could not intrude, Bree…”

“Bring food.” it wasn’t a question, so I just assumed that what she’d meant was I’ll bring you some food. I hoped that’s what she’d meant, because I was really hungry at that point. She did bring some food. It was meager, just some leftover bread, but I ate it happily.

“Thank you, Bree.”

“Mio piacere, Oriole.” Who even cared what she said? She brought things to keep me from starving.

What else? I have a blanket, now. I try to find a place that’s… not on the side of the road, for one, to go huddle in. It makes it a lot less difficult to maintain a nice image, if I’m not asleep right near everybody else. They seem to know that I’m sleeping like a hobo, but they don’t comment as much if I’m around the corner of some alley. I worry for my safety, but the people here are nice… so I doubt there’d be any trouble from any of them. I hope.

By the way, I’m not normal. I’m sure that as much can be gathered, but the extent of the human mind to grasp… ah, sometimes even I forget. I get wrapped up in my… well, not depression. My misfortune, I should say. At least I can look up at the sky in the evening; I can watch the canvas blend from blue to orange and purple. That should be enough for anyone.

Still, I heard a strange voice, one time. It wasn’t helpful, it just said this, “Oriole, don’t forget Liberty. She is waiting.”

The only issue with saying something like that… is trying to remember who this “Liberty” person is, and then trying not to forget who she is. I have to remember in order to remember. I don’t even know how to go about doing that.

I suspect that she’s the peach-haired girl in my dreams. Don’t get me wrong, the hair isn’t like the inside of the peach, not yellow. It’s more like the outside of a particularly orange-pink one. In any case, I keep dreaming that she’s holding hands and spending time with a black-haired boy. I don’t know who he is, exactly, but I worry for the girl. He seems nice, but… not nice enough. I’m not sure how to describe it.

In any case, that girl seems happy in my dreams. I’m happy to dream about her, but if she is Liberty, I wonder where she is. Why is she waiting, and who is she in the first place? She’s pretty enough, but if she has this strapping blue-eyed boy, why would she give a thought to me? Me with my bleach-blonde hair and scary green eyes, I can’t see why she’d like me at all.

That boy is confident and strong, and I am weak. No comparison.

Even remembering this, I’m crying. I don’t even know why. I don’t understand anything about my circumstances. I remember completely useless things, like Latin and my name… aren’t my sleeping patterns and their contents more important? They seem a lot more pressing. They seem a lot more relevant.