And the mourning dove gets caught in a telephone wire.
Discard this message
Throw this bottle back into the ocean
Rip this page from the history books
Smash all the street signs
Erase all this mess
Forget my name, forget my face
because it's gunna rain
it's gunna rain
and it never ends.
When I opened LJ, it asked if I'd like to save from an earlier entry. It said:
I'm such a fucking mess nowadays, but that's usually the case when she's around again.
That's all.
I'm going to guess it's from a month ago when I was relapsing on old memories.
I keep thinking about how it's possible that I can continually word, re-word, and intend on publishing my thoughts on here yet never do it. I know the answer; I'm viciously afraid of being labeled a particular way. When we write our thoughts here, some part of the context is always lost. As calculated and articulate as my musings aim to be, no one really knows the motivations behind them. So, when a post like this comes up, I may seem melodramatic or pessimistic, but it's the culmination of an awkward night with my former gradmates, an honest talk at McAllister's with a distant friend, the strikingly beautiful weather, the anxiety and anticipation of large social events tonight, the stir of emotions churned by these Thursday songs, and the personality collage produced by such things.
I have an entire day with nothing to do.
I think I'll journal and drink beer.
that makes sense.
life is grand.
and in a short time you're never the same again
the distance is streamlined
between decision and defense
Crossing the line again to the other side of death
Hearing the words that choke memories into flatlines
Calling your name
Hoping for something to wash these dreams of you away
Write these words back down to find that's where you need them the most.
Throw this bottle back into the ocean
Rip this page from the history books
Smash all the street signs
Erase all this mess
Forget my name, forget my face
because it's gunna rain
it's gunna rain
and it never ends.
When I opened LJ, it asked if I'd like to save from an earlier entry. It said:
I'm such a fucking mess nowadays, but that's usually the case when she's around again.
That's all.
I'm going to guess it's from a month ago when I was relapsing on old memories.
I keep thinking about how it's possible that I can continually word, re-word, and intend on publishing my thoughts on here yet never do it. I know the answer; I'm viciously afraid of being labeled a particular way. When we write our thoughts here, some part of the context is always lost. As calculated and articulate as my musings aim to be, no one really knows the motivations behind them. So, when a post like this comes up, I may seem melodramatic or pessimistic, but it's the culmination of an awkward night with my former gradmates, an honest talk at McAllister's with a distant friend, the strikingly beautiful weather, the anxiety and anticipation of large social events tonight, the stir of emotions churned by these Thursday songs, and the personality collage produced by such things.
I have an entire day with nothing to do.
I think I'll journal and drink beer.
that makes sense.
life is grand.
and in a short time you're never the same again
the distance is streamlined
between decision and defense
Crossing the line again to the other side of death
Hearing the words that choke memories into flatlines
Calling your name
Hoping for something to wash these dreams of you away
Write these words back down to find that's where you need them the most.