Daimonds and Rust
Mel posted a long blog on myspace about hating change, and I haven't been on here in forever, but I just have to say that I am going to join the current bandwagon of emotion. I HATE change!!!! Life is just so beautiful when it is full of friends who love you, places you know so well, and memories of the hundreds and thousands of things you have done in all of those places with all those friends. And then all of a sudden it is over and you have years of memories that feel like, well you know what Adam Duritz says, "if dreams are like movies then memories are films about ghosts." Except that when you know and love the ghosts and they were or are real, it just hurts to know that in a few weeks or months they will forever after be memories and ghosts.
I am a romantic. A romantic romantic. Mel is an art romantic. Megan is an Urban romantic. Heidy is probably a language romantic. Hana is a rock romantic. And there are a lot of theatre romantics 'round these parts. So when I leave, what if I go to a place where the people aren't romantics. What if they don't live inside dramas or romances or musicals or rock operas? What if they live in action movies, or documentaries? How do you leave a place where you belong? Where you know so many people, and they know you. They know what you are and what you've done. All the good and bad things you've done or that happened. A place where you can't walk to steps without having twenty memories come to mind of thigs you've done in that exact spot. People who aren't romantics see trees and stairs and buildings and streets. Romantics see the secret, safe place under the tree where you used to sit and cry when life got to be too much--you used to go there--before they cut the hedges down. Romantics see the tread of a hundred days of happiness and anger and rebellion and exhaustion going up and down those stairs to class--back when the rooms were painted green and blue and salmon instead of beige. Romantics see the tyranny and hope, the despair and the drive, the thrill and the rage felt in each corridor and rooftop of each building--from the time you didn't get the part or the time you did, or the time you met someone for the first time, or the time you sat eating half a pizza as you poured your heart out to a best friend, or the time you stood up for what you believed in, or the time you didn't, and especially the time a whole roomful of people clapped for you---even though they had no idea that in the room downstairs you had left your shattered heart to pick up later because the show must go on. Romantics see the red agony and the black bitterness and the stronger than steel joy of every emotion you ever had walking down that street that is now filled with a few people you know, so many people you don't know, and a whole host of ghosts belonging to your memories of this place where you belong.
But why do I torture myself with all this? All these memories, golden and glowing and gone. They glow. Glow, which doesn't work as an objective, it's not something you can achieve yourself. Nostalgia doesn't work as an objective either. They aren't strong enough objectives. So how does this nostalgia, these glowing memories, how do they fill up my soul and ache so strongly. I know the future must hold good times and fond memories. But sometimes I wish I could just go back to four year ago. . . . . . . . . .
But we both know what memories can bring, they bring daimonds and rust.
I am a romantic. A romantic romantic. Mel is an art romantic. Megan is an Urban romantic. Heidy is probably a language romantic. Hana is a rock romantic. And there are a lot of theatre romantics 'round these parts. So when I leave, what if I go to a place where the people aren't romantics. What if they don't live inside dramas or romances or musicals or rock operas? What if they live in action movies, or documentaries? How do you leave a place where you belong? Where you know so many people, and they know you. They know what you are and what you've done. All the good and bad things you've done or that happened. A place where you can't walk to steps without having twenty memories come to mind of thigs you've done in that exact spot. People who aren't romantics see trees and stairs and buildings and streets. Romantics see the secret, safe place under the tree where you used to sit and cry when life got to be too much--you used to go there--before they cut the hedges down. Romantics see the tread of a hundred days of happiness and anger and rebellion and exhaustion going up and down those stairs to class--back when the rooms were painted green and blue and salmon instead of beige. Romantics see the tyranny and hope, the despair and the drive, the thrill and the rage felt in each corridor and rooftop of each building--from the time you didn't get the part or the time you did, or the time you met someone for the first time, or the time you sat eating half a pizza as you poured your heart out to a best friend, or the time you stood up for what you believed in, or the time you didn't, and especially the time a whole roomful of people clapped for you---even though they had no idea that in the room downstairs you had left your shattered heart to pick up later because the show must go on. Romantics see the red agony and the black bitterness and the stronger than steel joy of every emotion you ever had walking down that street that is now filled with a few people you know, so many people you don't know, and a whole host of ghosts belonging to your memories of this place where you belong.
But why do I torture myself with all this? All these memories, golden and glowing and gone. They glow. Glow, which doesn't work as an objective, it's not something you can achieve yourself. Nostalgia doesn't work as an objective either. They aren't strong enough objectives. So how does this nostalgia, these glowing memories, how do they fill up my soul and ache so strongly. I know the future must hold good times and fond memories. But sometimes I wish I could just go back to four year ago. . . . . . . . . .
But we both know what memories can bring, they bring daimonds and rust.