(no subject)
I wish I knew what to do to make it all go away. I want to chase everything back, and bring back light to wherever there's darkness. I want to take everything and make it pure and good again, and give happiness to those that I love. I want to make it perfect again, smooth over the surface, and fill in the cracks - not with mediocrity, but with the best, the prime.
I want to kiss for the sake of kissing again. I want to lie on my bed and look up at the ceiling and dream my dreams. I want to go and throw snowballs, and decorate Christmas trees, and bake mince pies. I want to laugh, and wrap up presents, and get tape everywhere, and just enjoy it all again.
I want to be 6 again, lying in bed, worrying over how Santa would get down the chimney because we didn't have an open fireplace. I want Christmas Eves with Gug' and Gav', plotting how to capture reindeer. I want Christmas Days with my mam having made a huge turkey, and the new suit and the fight with my hair to lie flat just for once.
I want to be 16 again, itching for mistletoe, for the first kiss, for someone to hold onto and to hold onto me. I want to be falling in love with life and the world again, cushioned in the safety of youth.
I want a home. I want my bed. I want my own place, my own time. I'm sick of hotel rooms, sick of plastic cheer, sick of the smile that looks like someone stuck a coathanger in my mouth. I'm sick of touring around the product of our own mistakes and pretending it's something worthwhile. I'm sick of singing songs and worrying not only that I'll lose the words, but that somehow I'll lose the crowds.
And that somehow, I've lost myself. And I don't know how to get me back.
I want to kiss for the sake of kissing again. I want to lie on my bed and look up at the ceiling and dream my dreams. I want to go and throw snowballs, and decorate Christmas trees, and bake mince pies. I want to laugh, and wrap up presents, and get tape everywhere, and just enjoy it all again.
I want to be 6 again, lying in bed, worrying over how Santa would get down the chimney because we didn't have an open fireplace. I want Christmas Eves with Gug' and Gav', plotting how to capture reindeer. I want Christmas Days with my mam having made a huge turkey, and the new suit and the fight with my hair to lie flat just for once.
I want to be 16 again, itching for mistletoe, for the first kiss, for someone to hold onto and to hold onto me. I want to be falling in love with life and the world again, cushioned in the safety of youth.
I want a home. I want my bed. I want my own place, my own time. I'm sick of hotel rooms, sick of plastic cheer, sick of the smile that looks like someone stuck a coathanger in my mouth. I'm sick of touring around the product of our own mistakes and pretending it's something worthwhile. I'm sick of singing songs and worrying not only that I'll lose the words, but that somehow I'll lose the crowds.
And that somehow, I've lost myself. And I don't know how to get me back.