Don't you feed me lines about some idealistic future...
I think maybe I've been listening to The Postal Service too much the past few days. It's funny how some music just seems to connect me to a far away friend. Soon to be not so far away again, which is a huge happy in the land of me.
There are so many words begging to be written. Thoughts writhing about my brain's twisted landscape. Yet that same old problem rears it's ugly little head...inability to articulate...the writer's version of ED. I should easily be able to come up with a witty title for my little disorder, but I lack even that energy these days it seems.
I say this with no ill intent or will to guilt a friend but I fear without you here my dear, inspiration is just as far away as you.
I have things that inspire my thought process, that just get me going off on my little rollercoaster of contradiction...then I go to write it down...and everything comes up short.
I fear that I will not do myself justice. I won't do my subject matter justice. I don't want to write watered down reality, love, life. I want to write without fear of the dirt under everyone's fingernails. No one is pure, everyone needs a little purging...
My thoughts seem to scatter...at moment flipping between everyone's dirty little secrets, wishing my Marty was home already, excited to spend the night with Josh tonight...even excited to go mail off the Coach bag I traded of mine for another LJ folk.
The spectrum of emotions is so wide these days. I would like to think that my emotional range has matured as I have, yet somehow that is probably not the case. Wishful thinking...
Subject lines always stump me, and never fit what I end up saying anyway. This one should probably be followed by a bitchy sarcastic cynical entry about my distaste for marriage or something of the like. While my distaste remains, it has been softened.
I've been softened. Part of me would fight this, I still do in ways...but in all honesty...I'm ok with it. It's not the inside of me that has become softer, that has always been. The hard candy shell is the only part that has changed. Love, it makes you do the wacky...
The thing is, it's not just the loving, being loved crap...it's perspective. Having someone that close to you, that sees you in all those ways no one else gets to. All the vulnerability, the sheer nudity of a personality. That's a mirror image no one else can give...there are very few that can give as clear a picture of my 'shit', my little acts than Josh can now...Marty and Jess have done it well for ages...but there's just something in the way he can call me out on something I've done forever as being 'cute' or whatever adjective you want to go with...that's not something anyone else could do.
There...how's that for mush? There's not so little romance left in this old bitch after all. There's actually quite a bit, it's just not a simple thing to admit.
No more rhymes now I mean it. (PB, Marty, we must watch when home you are.)
Sands running out on this day anyway...
There are so many words begging to be written. Thoughts writhing about my brain's twisted landscape. Yet that same old problem rears it's ugly little head...inability to articulate...the writer's version of ED. I should easily be able to come up with a witty title for my little disorder, but I lack even that energy these days it seems.
I say this with no ill intent or will to guilt a friend but I fear without you here my dear, inspiration is just as far away as you.
I have things that inspire my thought process, that just get me going off on my little rollercoaster of contradiction...then I go to write it down...and everything comes up short.
I fear that I will not do myself justice. I won't do my subject matter justice. I don't want to write watered down reality, love, life. I want to write without fear of the dirt under everyone's fingernails. No one is pure, everyone needs a little purging...
My thoughts seem to scatter...at moment flipping between everyone's dirty little secrets, wishing my Marty was home already, excited to spend the night with Josh tonight...even excited to go mail off the Coach bag I traded of mine for another LJ folk.
The spectrum of emotions is so wide these days. I would like to think that my emotional range has matured as I have, yet somehow that is probably not the case. Wishful thinking...
Subject lines always stump me, and never fit what I end up saying anyway. This one should probably be followed by a bitchy sarcastic cynical entry about my distaste for marriage or something of the like. While my distaste remains, it has been softened.
I've been softened. Part of me would fight this, I still do in ways...but in all honesty...I'm ok with it. It's not the inside of me that has become softer, that has always been. The hard candy shell is the only part that has changed. Love, it makes you do the wacky...
The thing is, it's not just the loving, being loved crap...it's perspective. Having someone that close to you, that sees you in all those ways no one else gets to. All the vulnerability, the sheer nudity of a personality. That's a mirror image no one else can give...there are very few that can give as clear a picture of my 'shit', my little acts than Josh can now...Marty and Jess have done it well for ages...but there's just something in the way he can call me out on something I've done forever as being 'cute' or whatever adjective you want to go with...that's not something anyone else could do.
There...how's that for mush? There's not so little romance left in this old bitch after all. There's actually quite a bit, it's just not a simple thing to admit.
No more rhymes now I mean it. (PB, Marty, we must watch when home you are.)
Sands running out on this day anyway...