The Days are Bright and Filled with Pain.
Before you slip into unconsciousness
I'd like to have another kiss
Another flashing chance at bliss
Another kiss... another kiss...
The days are bright and filled with pain
Enclose me in your gentle rain
The time you ran was too insane
We'll meet again... we'll meet again
Oh tell me where your freedom lies
The streets are fields that never die
Deliver me from reasons why
You'd rather cry... I'd rather fly...
The crystal ship is being filled
A thousand girls, a thousand thrills
A million ways to spend my time
When we get back... drop me a line...
So I'll return to the war zone, after all. Three days ago it looked as though I would be spending the vacation in Brockport, under the influence of St. Patrick's Day reveling (which, count on it, has lasted all month for these people and will be happening in a heavier form all week). I've had a change of heart, however, and will be home for the first half of the week, returning on Thursday so that I won't miss St. Patrick's Day. I'll be home Saturday evening by 9:00. There were too many people to see who've missed me, and I suppose in the end, I couldn't let them down.
It's a distinct possibility that Chris and I will be recording my song, if my car'll make it down to Connecticut or if he brings his computer up to my house. I work really well with him, so I'm sure it'll come out nicely, dispite my singing ability. I have the first two verses recorded, seperately - those being the strongest, I felt, the rest being a cliche unloading of emotional baggage. He seemed to know how they were meant to sound just from the chords and the lyrics when I showed him. He always was like that, anyway, finishing thoughts and such. But I will say this, when he was off, he was way off, and that's for damn sure. If I can avoid singing through my nose, we might have a decent recording. I can work with him, at least, that much I know. We might write a song together... we've been writing stories over the internet and formed a literary team called "The Mysterious Fierce." Now, when we come up with a plot, watch out world!
So Mom and Pat and David and Bill and Rachel and Brian and Chris... and any more takers, because I've got to find time to write a paper on Puritan Literature, too, during all of this?
I want to record something here that my teacher said to me and I found wise. She said, "Anger is always the product of unmet expectations." Definitely, when I've been mad about something, I have expected something and not recieved it... sympathy, love, fairness, equality, justice. I think maybe that unvoiced knowledge that I've maybe always believed is what hurts so much when someone's angry with me. In time, anger can be put aside, eventually it ebbs away if it's not further encouraged with sarcasm and vaunting cruelty. Time heals all wounds into scars, it's true. As unmet as our expectations might have been in our past... I find hope with each passing day that I'll overcome my anger, and that those who are angry with me will overcome theirs. Does love conquer all? Is it a redemption to the memories of lost loves? I hope so.
For my part, I would remember the hand holding and the genuine eyes. I would remember the awe struck smiles, the kites... the mist on my skin and the roar, and the silent grass that I fell in. I would remember skittles and the smell of tobacco. I would remember buttercups. I would think of our bodies together in a bed and the safety of being held. I would remember the love, and I will, once the hurt and anger for the hurt ebbs away.
I'm going to ignore the hypocrisy and the judgements against my pride, the screaming and the patched sheetrock. I'll let go the struggles. For why did we struggle but for the fact that we longed for the rest of it to always be that perfect way that it was? Why did we cry but for the loss of those things? It all makes sense to me, and so I let go of this foolish bitterness. When time heals what it will, I will always be ready to meet those who have defined love in my life. Some will call me. Some will IM me. Others were too proud for this, and that I knew from the beginning and planned ahead. I know relationsihps to be like a dropped loop in knitting, easily brought back by one who is skilled.
Strangely, I can't seem to be very angry anymore. It was thus: He is not living up to my expectations, I am angry, he is angry, he is further not living up to my expectations, I am angrier, and angrier, and then... I accept that he was never capable of them, I'm angry at myself for expecting too much, I forgive myself for my desire believe in him drove this to me because I understand my own desperation in this matter, I don't see how I can really be mad at him anymore, just sorry because that's the way it is. "It's sad and it's a shame, but it's a damned straight fact." So let me lay this on the line, in case there's one particularly confused person in the audience today. I love you. We, both of us, failed one another. I'm over my failure to you, and I'm over your failure to me. The only thing that will reverse this wonderful understanding I've reached with the situation is that dreadful attitude of yours. Give up on bitterness, it is a poison to the wounds in your heart. See how mine are well on their way to scarring? It is acceptance. It has nothing to do with pride.
From the mindset of acceptance... does it really make sense to try and exaserbate a situation that is already uncomfortable with accusations and cheap shots? I'm thinking it's a waste time for both parties.
I wrote Leland today and told him that even should he drop off the face of the earth again, he would still make me smile whenever I wanted him to, just remembering that night at prom. It's the same thing. We can all use our memories for good or evil. If I'm to be a cold hearted bitch to some, that says more of them than it does of me because I'm neither a cold hearted bitch nor a constant ray of boundless grace and sunshine. Remember as you like, as your character dictates. I will remember as mine does:
Ducks and fly infested basements. Clinging onto the perfect other body in that bed that I want so much to beg the time just to lie in it and smell it once more... I'll remember attics and spare beds and bottles. I'll remember cabins and horrible orange themed wallpaper, and in the back of my mind, I'm always running down that lookout, always stumbling and believing that then and there, I've found God. And I'll see the stone church. I'll pay for fried rice because you forgot your wallet, and I'll smell gasoline and think of your combat boots. I know Otto belongs in prison because we're bad parents, but I love that kid, I really do, and he looked just like you so that my heart broke. And I'll see that sunset, pink behind you in your suit out the window with glass older than four generations. I'll toast you with a Smirnoff and L'Chaim! I'll sing a duet with you as long as no one can see my face. I'll nuzzle against that celtic cross and that tobacco smell underneath my locker door, and straining just for a glance of you through that ridiculous piece of modern art that we could walk in. Jeeps. Cevy Celebrities. Dodge Caravans. I'll remember fishing. I'll go "wimming!" with you until you freeze.
I'll have all of this, and after all of this, can I really stay mad at you? Can I really not look at you in admiration and smile? Can I really be so bitter and hateful? I can't. I refuse to, because it wouldn't do justice to those eyes I stared into and loved. Electric blue and intense, but always trying to understand things that you couldn't... deep green like a forest canopy, I said, and I could never reach that top, but you were kind about it anyway... marbled green and mournful from a deeper understanding of the world around you and your isolation... Bitterness and fostered anger does none of these justice. What can I do but love them all and hoard every memory of these loves safe in my heart?
No, I can't maintain anger when love overrides it. I would be a fool to hold onto the bitterness, when I have more reason to remember the love.
I'd like to have another kiss
Another flashing chance at bliss
Another kiss... another kiss...
The days are bright and filled with pain
Enclose me in your gentle rain
The time you ran was too insane
We'll meet again... we'll meet again
Oh tell me where your freedom lies
The streets are fields that never die
Deliver me from reasons why
You'd rather cry... I'd rather fly...
The crystal ship is being filled
A thousand girls, a thousand thrills
A million ways to spend my time
When we get back... drop me a line...
So I'll return to the war zone, after all. Three days ago it looked as though I would be spending the vacation in Brockport, under the influence of St. Patrick's Day reveling (which, count on it, has lasted all month for these people and will be happening in a heavier form all week). I've had a change of heart, however, and will be home for the first half of the week, returning on Thursday so that I won't miss St. Patrick's Day. I'll be home Saturday evening by 9:00. There were too many people to see who've missed me, and I suppose in the end, I couldn't let them down.
It's a distinct possibility that Chris and I will be recording my song, if my car'll make it down to Connecticut or if he brings his computer up to my house. I work really well with him, so I'm sure it'll come out nicely, dispite my singing ability. I have the first two verses recorded, seperately - those being the strongest, I felt, the rest being a cliche unloading of emotional baggage. He seemed to know how they were meant to sound just from the chords and the lyrics when I showed him. He always was like that, anyway, finishing thoughts and such. But I will say this, when he was off, he was way off, and that's for damn sure. If I can avoid singing through my nose, we might have a decent recording. I can work with him, at least, that much I know. We might write a song together... we've been writing stories over the internet and formed a literary team called "The Mysterious Fierce." Now, when we come up with a plot, watch out world!
So Mom and Pat and David and Bill and Rachel and Brian and Chris... and any more takers, because I've got to find time to write a paper on Puritan Literature, too, during all of this?
I want to record something here that my teacher said to me and I found wise. She said, "Anger is always the product of unmet expectations." Definitely, when I've been mad about something, I have expected something and not recieved it... sympathy, love, fairness, equality, justice. I think maybe that unvoiced knowledge that I've maybe always believed is what hurts so much when someone's angry with me. In time, anger can be put aside, eventually it ebbs away if it's not further encouraged with sarcasm and vaunting cruelty. Time heals all wounds into scars, it's true. As unmet as our expectations might have been in our past... I find hope with each passing day that I'll overcome my anger, and that those who are angry with me will overcome theirs. Does love conquer all? Is it a redemption to the memories of lost loves? I hope so.
For my part, I would remember the hand holding and the genuine eyes. I would remember the awe struck smiles, the kites... the mist on my skin and the roar, and the silent grass that I fell in. I would remember skittles and the smell of tobacco. I would remember buttercups. I would think of our bodies together in a bed and the safety of being held. I would remember the love, and I will, once the hurt and anger for the hurt ebbs away.
I'm going to ignore the hypocrisy and the judgements against my pride, the screaming and the patched sheetrock. I'll let go the struggles. For why did we struggle but for the fact that we longed for the rest of it to always be that perfect way that it was? Why did we cry but for the loss of those things? It all makes sense to me, and so I let go of this foolish bitterness. When time heals what it will, I will always be ready to meet those who have defined love in my life. Some will call me. Some will IM me. Others were too proud for this, and that I knew from the beginning and planned ahead. I know relationsihps to be like a dropped loop in knitting, easily brought back by one who is skilled.
Strangely, I can't seem to be very angry anymore. It was thus: He is not living up to my expectations, I am angry, he is angry, he is further not living up to my expectations, I am angrier, and angrier, and then... I accept that he was never capable of them, I'm angry at myself for expecting too much, I forgive myself for my desire believe in him drove this to me because I understand my own desperation in this matter, I don't see how I can really be mad at him anymore, just sorry because that's the way it is. "It's sad and it's a shame, but it's a damned straight fact." So let me lay this on the line, in case there's one particularly confused person in the audience today. I love you. We, both of us, failed one another. I'm over my failure to you, and I'm over your failure to me. The only thing that will reverse this wonderful understanding I've reached with the situation is that dreadful attitude of yours. Give up on bitterness, it is a poison to the wounds in your heart. See how mine are well on their way to scarring? It is acceptance. It has nothing to do with pride.
From the mindset of acceptance... does it really make sense to try and exaserbate a situation that is already uncomfortable with accusations and cheap shots? I'm thinking it's a waste time for both parties.
I wrote Leland today and told him that even should he drop off the face of the earth again, he would still make me smile whenever I wanted him to, just remembering that night at prom. It's the same thing. We can all use our memories for good or evil. If I'm to be a cold hearted bitch to some, that says more of them than it does of me because I'm neither a cold hearted bitch nor a constant ray of boundless grace and sunshine. Remember as you like, as your character dictates. I will remember as mine does:
Ducks and fly infested basements. Clinging onto the perfect other body in that bed that I want so much to beg the time just to lie in it and smell it once more... I'll remember attics and spare beds and bottles. I'll remember cabins and horrible orange themed wallpaper, and in the back of my mind, I'm always running down that lookout, always stumbling and believing that then and there, I've found God. And I'll see the stone church. I'll pay for fried rice because you forgot your wallet, and I'll smell gasoline and think of your combat boots. I know Otto belongs in prison because we're bad parents, but I love that kid, I really do, and he looked just like you so that my heart broke. And I'll see that sunset, pink behind you in your suit out the window with glass older than four generations. I'll toast you with a Smirnoff and L'Chaim! I'll sing a duet with you as long as no one can see my face. I'll nuzzle against that celtic cross and that tobacco smell underneath my locker door, and straining just for a glance of you through that ridiculous piece of modern art that we could walk in. Jeeps. Cevy Celebrities. Dodge Caravans. I'll remember fishing. I'll go "wimming!" with you until you freeze.
I'll have all of this, and after all of this, can I really stay mad at you? Can I really not look at you in admiration and smile? Can I really be so bitter and hateful? I can't. I refuse to, because it wouldn't do justice to those eyes I stared into and loved. Electric blue and intense, but always trying to understand things that you couldn't... deep green like a forest canopy, I said, and I could never reach that top, but you were kind about it anyway... marbled green and mournful from a deeper understanding of the world around you and your isolation... Bitterness and fostered anger does none of these justice. What can I do but love them all and hoard every memory of these loves safe in my heart?
No, I can't maintain anger when love overrides it. I would be a fool to hold onto the bitterness, when I have more reason to remember the love.