The next big song
The time is 7:00am, but it always is, even when it’s not, really. I set my clock forty minutes ahead to get a head start on my own mind. It’s easier to think that I’m running late when I wake up than to wake up and roll around wondering if it’s even worth being awake on that specified day, and today is one of those days.
Everything about this morning seems just a little more awkward than normal. I blink repeatedly to get a fix on the ceiling’s cracks and lumps and scratch my pillow-laden hair.
And then when I sit up, everything changes. There are marks on the wall of violence, blood stained in a fashion that resembles someone getting thrown against it, kind of the same shape a wet sponge would take if you threw it at something hard. I don’t like this, and I’m not sure what to do.
Shaking.
I slide my dry fingers over the spots on the walls and look down at my body’s shape under the blanket, throwing it onto the floor ensuring that it wasn’t me that this is a part of, and everything seems intact.
What is this mess?
Is it a dream? My mind is playing a farce on me again, isn’t it? It’s just something completely offbeat and has nothing to do with me; it’s something that’s not really there. By the time I’ve convinced myself with my eyes closed that it isn’t there, I look around again and it’s disappeared.
I’ve been blind since I was six.
These are visions I get, possible recurring memories from childhood, who knows. I live my life like this every day and every single time it happens, I get twisted into a knot, whether it’s at home, or just in a daily travel. Once on a bus sitting patiently talking to my sister Claire, I started hyperventilating, because for a brief moment I could see her reaction to a joke. Dirty blonde hair and hazel eyes, a silly little grin on her face. It was the most beautiful sight I’d ever seen, and was like a small adventure and a curse all completely wrapped up into one little present.
Lyrics to the track, at the end of the typewriter's life. It died after this and did not come back. Curreently the whole project is untitled.
Everything about this morning seems just a little more awkward than normal. I blink repeatedly to get a fix on the ceiling’s cracks and lumps and scratch my pillow-laden hair.
And then when I sit up, everything changes. There are marks on the wall of violence, blood stained in a fashion that resembles someone getting thrown against it, kind of the same shape a wet sponge would take if you threw it at something hard. I don’t like this, and I’m not sure what to do.
Shaking.
I slide my dry fingers over the spots on the walls and look down at my body’s shape under the blanket, throwing it onto the floor ensuring that it wasn’t me that this is a part of, and everything seems intact.
What is this mess?
Is it a dream? My mind is playing a farce on me again, isn’t it? It’s just something completely offbeat and has nothing to do with me; it’s something that’s not really there. By the time I’ve convinced myself with my eyes closed that it isn’t there, I look around again and it’s disappeared.
I’ve been blind since I was six.
These are visions I get, possible recurring memories from childhood, who knows. I live my life like this every day and every single time it happens, I get twisted into a knot, whether it’s at home, or just in a daily travel. Once on a bus sitting patiently talking to my sister Claire, I started hyperventilating, because for a brief moment I could see her reaction to a joke. Dirty blonde hair and hazel eyes, a silly little grin on her face. It was the most beautiful sight I’d ever seen, and was like a small adventure and a curse all completely wrapped up into one little present.
Lyrics to the track, at the end of the typewriter's life. It died after this and did not come back. Curreently the whole project is untitled.