For once, here it is.
I think I want to go out more this year. You know, go more places. Walk around in heels on Saturday nights, where chandelier earrings. Drink more orange juice. Have more tea, hopefully with nice people who also enjoy tea. I want to swim more and laugh more and complain less. I want to be around people I honestly enjoy whose company makes me genuinely happy instead of having to act a certain way around certain people. I will not be ashamed of my unabashed fascination with J.N. Hummel or bright lights and shiny floors. Or for that matter, Liz Phair. God knows I will always put Portishead and Azure Ray first. The Hours is the best movie that no one has ever really seen. Damien Rice was meant to be listened to while drinking coffee and contemplating the meaning of life.
You hear me? I am one of you! I will drink tea and wear tawdry earrings and turn up the heat and we'll listen to the music we want to listen to and laugh about things that would not normally be all that funny. My breath still gets short when I think about him... but I am not so desiccated. I am not so hopeless.
I am 19 years old, and I wonder if this is what 19 year olds feel like. And will I feel different in another year. I know how different I felt this time last year... what a completely different and unexpected direction my life has taken. But in retrospect, I could not have made better decisions. I am not so cynical, I just remember a life so different from this one. Not necessarily a better one.
I remember ages 14 and 16. There was innocence and humiliation, there was laughing in cold cars in the winter, there was short hair and bad skin, air that smelt like burnt leaves and exhaust, there was scrabble and dashboard confessional, good friends around warm fireplaces playing weezer songs on the guitar while others sang and joked, knowing what it was like to have someone who knew everything you were going through, picking apart your ex-boyfriend over the phone with your at-the-time best friend who made you laugh and realize why it was better that way, and remember when he showed up at your house and you felt so good because you were so together and so completely okay without him. It felt good, that liberation. That was then.
Now it is occasional outburts of sadness, ocassional outbursts of joy, and it is all so inconsistent. Brief ideas that stick to your lips, therapuetic weekends with friends, drinking something warm and foamy on the chilly evenings, and smiling and knowing I will be in love again, and the uplifting feeling when I buy a new sweater or a new book, taking pictures. There is something about beauty... something about angles, and poses, and presentations, something appealing. I am not so nearly emotionally wraught and fragile as I was last year. But I am just a little too overly-analytical. For falling in love with non-existent things when this world is so far from perfect, and so far from what I imagine. Does mediocrity, and living day to day, really get me this down?
I am just trying to be real for once. Trying to stop the vague, metaphorical talk and say what I feel and mean what I say.
If everything I have been feeling, and seeing this past week or so were a colour, it would be red.
You hear me? I am one of you! I will drink tea and wear tawdry earrings and turn up the heat and we'll listen to the music we want to listen to and laugh about things that would not normally be all that funny. My breath still gets short when I think about him... but I am not so desiccated. I am not so hopeless.
I am 19 years old, and I wonder if this is what 19 year olds feel like. And will I feel different in another year. I know how different I felt this time last year... what a completely different and unexpected direction my life has taken. But in retrospect, I could not have made better decisions. I am not so cynical, I just remember a life so different from this one. Not necessarily a better one.
I remember ages 14 and 16. There was innocence and humiliation, there was laughing in cold cars in the winter, there was short hair and bad skin, air that smelt like burnt leaves and exhaust, there was scrabble and dashboard confessional, good friends around warm fireplaces playing weezer songs on the guitar while others sang and joked, knowing what it was like to have someone who knew everything you were going through, picking apart your ex-boyfriend over the phone with your at-the-time best friend who made you laugh and realize why it was better that way, and remember when he showed up at your house and you felt so good because you were so together and so completely okay without him. It felt good, that liberation. That was then.
Now it is occasional outburts of sadness, ocassional outbursts of joy, and it is all so inconsistent. Brief ideas that stick to your lips, therapuetic weekends with friends, drinking something warm and foamy on the chilly evenings, and smiling and knowing I will be in love again, and the uplifting feeling when I buy a new sweater or a new book, taking pictures. There is something about beauty... something about angles, and poses, and presentations, something appealing. I am not so nearly emotionally wraught and fragile as I was last year. But I am just a little too overly-analytical. For falling in love with non-existent things when this world is so far from perfect, and so far from what I imagine. Does mediocrity, and living day to day, really get me this down?
I am just trying to be real for once. Trying to stop the vague, metaphorical talk and say what I feel and mean what I say.
If everything I have been feeling, and seeing this past week or so were a colour, it would be red.