Moving back in; snippet by tiny snippet.
I ran away in floods of shame. I'll never tell how close I came. But I'll be home, lover, I'll be home in a little while. - Mumford & Sons, (Lover I'll Be) Home // [Because here I am crawling right back to Livejournal and moving entries from the other blog in pieces.]
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Several calesas trundle along the stretch of that bayside boulevard come sunset and it almost feels like a film in sepia. This is for another time. Right now it is past 6 o'clock and I am merely a homeward-bound passerby who's been awake thirty-six hours straight. The scene is set with fancy lighting. To pass the time, I'm mentally drafting an open letter ala Craigslist or MissedConnections to that cute boy wearing glasses and a white polo barong at the DFA. "I'm sorry I had to cut the line, but you looked so cute when you grinned your lopsided grin. I should have paid attention to your name on the application form you held. You were talking on the phone non-stop. I wondered if you had a girlfriend." A song was playing in my head somewhere.
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“Perhaps we don’t like what we see: our hips, our loss of hair, our shoe size, our dimples, our knuckles too big, our eating habits, our disposition. We have disclosed these things in secret, likes and dislikes, behind doors with locks, our lonely rooms, our messy desks, our empty hearts.", said Sufjan Stevens ever so precisely. You spend a good one-third of your life dreaming up the perfect you with perfect friends and perfect life, another third living it and finding out that nothing is really all it's cracked up to be. The other third you spend either feeling remorseful about the dissonance or straightening shit out. Everyone who sees you will sum you up. All five feet of you. All twenty-four years of your life. The insecurities that make you up. Everything you lack. How can you ever measure up? But someone, somewhere will notice the sunshine you can bring into a room when you walk in, and that will be enough to fill the grooves of your rough edges. "There must be a song here while you are taught patience."
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Two people. There had been grass. There had been a slide. There had been stars. Alcohol, even. The math is really simple. "Just pretend you love me." But he was sitting in a car with a girl who wouldn't tell him that she liked him but she liked him. Moments, places, people have a way of turning into songs. Oh, there had been songs.
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"No one ever really lives in this city." We're studying or working or visiting relatives, losing our tempers amidst traffic. This city breathes us in and we breathe it out in puffs of smoke that mars our conversations hardened with Bisaya. Or Korean. Swahili. A language of sorts. We chug our beers and chew, swallow, spit sisig-flavored stories. And think not of hometown but of home. "There must be a song here somewhere."
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B-SIDES : A MIXTAPE
Pearl Jam - Yellow Ledbetter / Fiona Apple - Across The Universe / The Strokes - I'll Try Anything Once / Alanis Morissette - Simple Together / Led Zeppelin - Hey Hey What Can I Do / Aimee Mann - Nightmare Girl / Coldplay - I Ran Away / The Format - If Work Permits / Smashing Pumpkins - Landslide / The Beatles - Rain
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