I'm In Love With My Sadness
Always one of my favorite Pumpkins lines.
Mostly stemming from that hiding thing I do.
Not that I did it today (no crying).
I hid a bit within myself, staring into sunlight and the carved edges of nice tables (rich people).
But not the lab islands cavern insanity of last year.
Other people do, things I don't notice most of the time.
I am the equivelant of philosophising tigers and blonde little boys.
The meaning of life is to chase one's self in more ways than one.
And happiness is achieved through masturbation...or so the magnetic pick up lines would like us to believe.
There's nothing more to do when you need to hide. Solutions been hell, but the spaces to be crawled into are the only haven one can expect to have within the crash of thought, running from it.
I really feel like writing poetry. But once stricken with lost relevance that grows harder and harder to do.
But I waaannnttt to.
Because I have a lovely little infatuation and I'd like to go on and on about it forever and ever, seeing as I script myself to do so.
This song makes me think about mother's vans and Street lights and holding Hands and singing Songs.
And then of cars and seats and pulled over on street corners, grasping tightly and never wanting to let go of one moment in which I carved in the edges.
But the next is new and sitting in chairs and wishing for a memory to tie to sense and niche.
Ah, remember.
Like that one I wrote that no one read and I'm gonna get offline and express myself in word and go to bed with new fluffed blankets and pretend that if anyone would read it they'd fall in love with me. Definition. Comprehension.
And hiding my head under pillows to somehow fall face forward into sleep.
Tired and I don't want to cello in a noon that follows the next morning (pretentious).
Fuck. That.
Mostly stemming from that hiding thing I do.
Not that I did it today (no crying).
I hid a bit within myself, staring into sunlight and the carved edges of nice tables (rich people).
But not the lab islands cavern insanity of last year.
Other people do, things I don't notice most of the time.
I am the equivelant of philosophising tigers and blonde little boys.
The meaning of life is to chase one's self in more ways than one.
And happiness is achieved through masturbation...or so the magnetic pick up lines would like us to believe.
There's nothing more to do when you need to hide. Solutions been hell, but the spaces to be crawled into are the only haven one can expect to have within the crash of thought, running from it.
I really feel like writing poetry. But once stricken with lost relevance that grows harder and harder to do.
But I waaannnttt to.
Because I have a lovely little infatuation and I'd like to go on and on about it forever and ever, seeing as I script myself to do so.
This song makes me think about mother's vans and Street lights and holding Hands and singing Songs.
And then of cars and seats and pulled over on street corners, grasping tightly and never wanting to let go of one moment in which I carved in the edges.
But the next is new and sitting in chairs and wishing for a memory to tie to sense and niche.
Ah, remember.
Like that one I wrote that no one read and I'm gonna get offline and express myself in word and go to bed with new fluffed blankets and pretend that if anyone would read it they'd fall in love with me. Definition. Comprehension.
And hiding my head under pillows to somehow fall face forward into sleep.
Tired and I don't want to cello in a noon that follows the next morning (pretentious).
Fuck. That.