(no subject)
you want the pain and you want the lack lustre efforts of everyone around you to make you hurt. and you make up stories in your head because you can't deal with the reality of everyone in the world seeming to hurt except for you. you can't watch the news, can't read the paper, can't involve yourself with intelligent conversation because the word destruction will always slip through the teeth of the storyteller and you crave that in your own life.
you block out the sounds of music and you hate to love the constant silence.
but it's because the artists hurt. you want that.
it's mess of lyrics and a swelling and throbbing of musical notes and it tells a story of hurt and pain and loss and you can't stand it and you want them to just shut up because you love what they had. you always were crazy like that.
you live in what you call coin-slot motels cause they are cheap and you jump from state to state like the fucking pathetic rabbit-in-your-headlights that you have become. but no place but chicago will ever be a home to you. chicago and it's late night city lights miss you like crazy. and you want to write letters to a city because you were never good with the spoken word. your tongue (contrary to popular belief) was not your strongest muscle. this is why you are awake at 3AM, to the buzzing of a cheap fridge in some one room bunker of a motel rental somewhere in georgia...or maybe jersey...you started forgetting every state after maryland. you were awake, not because of the buzzing, as annoying as it was, but because you ached for chicago.
your home.
you only loved chicago so much because being away from it gave you the aching you craved.
yeah, tell me im crazy, i live off it.
p.s: chicago and cocaine both have 7 letters. it always was the lucky number. and you always found that pretty amusing.
you block out the sounds of music and you hate to love the constant silence.
but it's because the artists hurt. you want that.
it's mess of lyrics and a swelling and throbbing of musical notes and it tells a story of hurt and pain and loss and you can't stand it and you want them to just shut up because you love what they had. you always were crazy like that.
you live in what you call coin-slot motels cause they are cheap and you jump from state to state like the fucking pathetic rabbit-in-your-headlights that you have become. but no place but chicago will ever be a home to you. chicago and it's late night city lights miss you like crazy. and you want to write letters to a city because you were never good with the spoken word. your tongue (contrary to popular belief) was not your strongest muscle. this is why you are awake at 3AM, to the buzzing of a cheap fridge in some one room bunker of a motel rental somewhere in georgia...or maybe jersey...you started forgetting every state after maryland. you were awake, not because of the buzzing, as annoying as it was, but because you ached for chicago.
your home.
you only loved chicago so much because being away from it gave you the aching you craved.
yeah, tell me im crazy, i live off it.
p.s: chicago and cocaine both have 7 letters. it always was the lucky number. and you always found that pretty amusing.