about thinking feeling drinking. Done.
This beat just came on and made a lot of sense because I can see you In a one night stand up, fool around in a room so small.
Monday, 30 January 2012
I hear this a lot: It's not you it's me
It's an odd feeling to watch one part of your life soar beyond expectations and the other part of your life go down the toilet. It's odd because you realize how well they balance each other out. You can't be happy about the good or devastated by the bad. You're just sort of there while it all happens.
These past six or so months have been hard. I'm not sleeping. I'm not eating well. And whenever I tell myself, "Self, you can't keep doing what you're doing. Something's got to give," I'm met with all this hostility. Like I'm angry with myself for having limitations. Like I'd spit in my own face if I could.
I thought I had gotten rid of that part of myself, the part that always shows up to kick me in the proverbial gonads whenever something bad happens. For the past couple of years, ever since I realized just how cruel that dark passenger could be, I've made a conscious effort to be kind to myself. Or as my therapist put it, to not say anything to me that I wouldn't let someone say to a close friend.
And yet, here I am, cowering down inside of myself, afraid to say things like "I'm tired" or "it's OK" or "I know things are bad, but I should work through them anyway" because I know that when I do, that other side of myself will zoom in like the Tazmanian devil, spouting off all these things about how I'm stupid and ugly and worthless and nothing will ever be right again because the common denominator in all of them is me, and I always find a way to screw things up.
So mostly I just don't do anything. And then I feel stressed because I should be doing something. And then I feel guilty because I should have done something months ago but didn't, and now I don't even know where to start or how to apologize or any of that stuff.
So I do more of nothing, and the cycle starts all over again.
Things will get better, though. They always do. I just have to wait for the storm to pass, is all.
These past six or so months have been hard. I'm not sleeping. I'm not eating well. And whenever I tell myself, "Self, you can't keep doing what you're doing. Something's got to give," I'm met with all this hostility. Like I'm angry with myself for having limitations. Like I'd spit in my own face if I could.
I thought I had gotten rid of that part of myself, the part that always shows up to kick me in the proverbial gonads whenever something bad happens. For the past couple of years, ever since I realized just how cruel that dark passenger could be, I've made a conscious effort to be kind to myself. Or as my therapist put it, to not say anything to me that I wouldn't let someone say to a close friend.
And yet, here I am, cowering down inside of myself, afraid to say things like "I'm tired" or "it's OK" or "I know things are bad, but I should work through them anyway" because I know that when I do, that other side of myself will zoom in like the Tazmanian devil, spouting off all these things about how I'm stupid and ugly and worthless and nothing will ever be right again because the common denominator in all of them is me, and I always find a way to screw things up.
So mostly I just don't do anything. And then I feel stressed because I should be doing something. And then I feel guilty because I should have done something months ago but didn't, and now I don't even know where to start or how to apologize or any of that stuff.
So I do more of nothing, and the cycle starts all over again.
Things will get better, though. They always do. I just have to wait for the storm to pass, is all.
We should have been dancing
I still keep looking back at you like you are an answer to that hit I once took too many times by choice and blind blissful ignorance, a bliss so tender and long phased by. That gleam in your eye I once knew and grew to like after reels of rolled out words, where whisper could not be heard only meaning in your whys.
There's a precious moment you get which we had and we had a lot of the time. I got tucked in at night with you curled around me I still thought you were blind. A sloppy sound of a gruff and grunt where small circles covered the white. There need not be sun If I were to be around you.
I'm still angry at the waste. I'm still angry at the waist. I'm still angry at the weight.
We should have been dancing, it's what we did best. Our time, our right time when most made sense. I think that room became the hopeless place we trapped ourselves behind face.
You wanted me to call you. You don't surprise me anymore and that isn't polite. I might eat my own hand if this doesn't stop, if the good gets angry and it doesn't stop. What if you don't stop? Baby what if you don't stop and you think too hard and the vein comes back and...
A night when you get back it builds and feel like a fool for telling because what else is there left if you don't get release. Those times when you just got everything we synched. We got silly and laughed and I write this for you because you knew all along, as we both did. With change there's always an end.
There's a precious moment you get which we had and we had a lot of the time. I got tucked in at night with you curled around me I still thought you were blind. A sloppy sound of a gruff and grunt where small circles covered the white. There need not be sun If I were to be around you.
I'm still angry at the waste. I'm still angry at the waist. I'm still angry at the weight.
We should have been dancing, it's what we did best. Our time, our right time when most made sense. I think that room became the hopeless place we trapped ourselves behind face.
You wanted me to call you. You don't surprise me anymore and that isn't polite. I might eat my own hand if this doesn't stop, if the good gets angry and it doesn't stop. What if you don't stop? Baby what if you don't stop and you think too hard and the vein comes back and...
A night when you get back it builds and feel like a fool for telling because what else is there left if you don't get release. Those times when you just got everything we synched. We got silly and laughed and I write this for you because you knew all along, as we both did. With change there's always an end.
What's so special about me I'm ordinary and your too insistent
What's wrong with you What is it you want What's so special about me I'm ordinary And you're too insistent You are too insistent Don't you stop An instant I know not Why won't you let me go Why won't you let me go now Just let me grow I'm still a tiny toad What's wrong it's been so long Is it me you're after Days and nights, and light-years And still no disaster You are so persistent Oh we're so persistent Should we act like people Who say they have Seen it all they're so Indifferent, I know not Why won't you let me know Why won't you let me know now People they want to know I'm such a tiny toad Why won't you let me know Why won't you let me know now They want to know I'm still a tiny toad Why won't you let me know Why won't you let me know now People they want to know I'm such a tiny toad Why won't you let me go Why won't you let me know now I'm such a tiny toad Why won't you let me know now
Saturday, 28 January 2012
Very indifferent
And it's very weird. Almost like I am in a box only bothered by physical movement and being told they can't read me.
It's like I can't even shout. My sounds only whispers alongside a head throb and glaring eyes. Even silence is nice music. I miss you. Amongst the weird I could write where as now there is hover.
Can I bash it out? What is there now? My riddle has come back and spiral has stopped which has never happened before. Ever. I think I need a day to sit. To just sit and stare at my walls and write and listen to sounds so beautiful they feel like finger tips on piano keys, lightly soothing my head. Walks where footsteps feel like pretty patterns mind and feet.
I can see why people put themselves in writing boxes, trapped in a valley with air for comfort. I don't even make sense either. An aura I have been told, but all I see is the red of my lipstick and doe eyes with question marks, or at least a pause button. I like that he doesn't understand me.
There is still a missing. and that missing is you.
What I felt two months ago seems to have been placed in my box, compartmentalised where the frames are shadows so grey I can't see in to even remember. Lets hope I don't create a mine field in order to find out.
I think I need to explore you now. Thank goodness dancing is the same.
45 minutes before I have to go, I wish those minutes were longer. Make a plan make a plan make a plan. I ate too much to find flavour but really the flavour got me, there is too much choice and that makes it the hardest for I like to go out and seek. Is what I seek solitude or souls?
I think I'm calling out for you. You, not him. Yes you, the forbidden. Because you understand the journey too. Asshole.
It's like I can't even shout. My sounds only whispers alongside a head throb and glaring eyes. Even silence is nice music. I miss you. Amongst the weird I could write where as now there is hover.
Can I bash it out? What is there now? My riddle has come back and spiral has stopped which has never happened before. Ever. I think I need a day to sit. To just sit and stare at my walls and write and listen to sounds so beautiful they feel like finger tips on piano keys, lightly soothing my head. Walks where footsteps feel like pretty patterns mind and feet.
I can see why people put themselves in writing boxes, trapped in a valley with air for comfort. I don't even make sense either. An aura I have been told, but all I see is the red of my lipstick and doe eyes with question marks, or at least a pause button. I like that he doesn't understand me.
There is still a missing. and that missing is you.
What I felt two months ago seems to have been placed in my box, compartmentalised where the frames are shadows so grey I can't see in to even remember. Lets hope I don't create a mine field in order to find out.
I think I need to explore you now. Thank goodness dancing is the same.
45 minutes before I have to go, I wish those minutes were longer. Make a plan make a plan make a plan. I ate too much to find flavour but really the flavour got me, there is too much choice and that makes it the hardest for I like to go out and seek. Is what I seek solitude or souls?
I think I'm calling out for you. You, not him. Yes you, the forbidden. Because you understand the journey too. Asshole.
"Tonight we going hard. just like the world is ours. we're tearing it apart. you know we're superstars, we are who we are. We dancing like we dumb. Our bodies going numb. We'll be forever young. You know we're superstars we are who we are"
You think you're confused! I am very confusing. What does she have, that I don't? It's not even between two now, is it?
I'm different now and that world will never be discovered again, that acid taste balloon eyes and tingly spine. I need to know more.
I need to go out. "we found love in a hopeless place". Because one nice moment keeps you coming back for more. And I think I may break him. I still need to make my own colour, because essentially I lost two best friends last year.
Friday, 27 January 2012
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