"i would carry you through the hurricane waters"
Ben Gibbard (the voice of Death Cab for Cutie as well as The Postal Service) did a live cover of Avril Lavigne's "Complicated" and i must say that he does Canadian pre-teen drama pretty damn well.
just thought i'd put that out there.
i've been avoiding this whole livejournal thing, and writing in general, as of late because for me writing something down makes it concrete and i haven't been up to actually facing what's become of my reality.
pain is art
and this art numbs the pain
it's a twisted cycle of
self abuse and novocaine
never sure which one feels more real
without this pain
i feel nothing.
without this art
i hurt.
i'm in a very Indigo Girls place in my life and i know at least one person who will for sure understand what that implies.
i'm living in a perpetual day,
a constant waking consciousness,
full of haunting melodies
and unknown prophets
hiding behind 6-strings.
a pulpit of practical music
for those who prefer the impractical,
and i watch in dim light
through well worn eyes
while willingly she bares her soul
through chord progressions
exposing her mind at every expense
only to save her heart.
traveling blind in several directions,
flip a pic and go where it lands,
never running away,
just trying to find home.
(i will not impede her journey,
but would jump at the chance
to be a part of it)
i was at the abbey earlier tonight when i scribbled that out, sitting across from a friend that i run into maybe once every few weeks. i was writing page after page in one of my notebooks while she was on her laptop and it was almost awkward that it wasn't awkward. every 20 minutes or so we'd make eye contact with the silent understanding that it was time for a nicotine break, we'd do the small talk thing and then go right back to our separate worlds. we both acknowledge that we don't know each other well at all, but for some reason neither of us do anything to change that. we're completely comfortable in our silence. i'm not sure if i want that to change. it's oddly comforting to be on such casual, equal ground with someone.
then again it makes me miss the kind of friends i used to have. i miss being able to call someone up and say 'i'm not okay, let's go get coffee' and have it actually happen. any of those connections i had have since moved; i've never appreciated free long distance so much. i'm frustrated with everyone lately. it seems as though whenever i see someone i haven't seen a while the first thing they say is "your hair has gotten so long", and coming from those who used to really know me, it pisses me off. like my hair being a few inches longer is what matters. like that extension of me is all that's to be noticed. even after spending time catching up with them it's never mentioned what else has changed about me. it's always my hair, never what's now missing from my eyes. it feels like nobody is left who will look close enough to notice the darkened hue. how my eyes aren't the mood rings they used to be; it feels like they get closer to black every day. people seem as though they've grown when standing beside me, but the truth is i just don't stand as tall as i used to.
life has crippled my posture.
my body has aged twice as fast as the years pass.
i'm sick of having to explain myself. i want someone to listen to all the words i don't have to say. part of me wants to have all of the conversations that i know i shouldn't, express everything i should leave unsaid for fear of losing more people than i already have. maybe some of you wouldn't run at my blunt honesty, but know some who would. would you? lately my honesty has only made things worse; i'll stick with politely lying until i think the truth will do more good than harm.
there are just some people that i wish were here to notice.
just thought i'd put that out there.
i've been avoiding this whole livejournal thing, and writing in general, as of late because for me writing something down makes it concrete and i haven't been up to actually facing what's become of my reality.
pain is art
and this art numbs the pain
it's a twisted cycle of
self abuse and novocaine
never sure which one feels more real
without this pain
i feel nothing.
without this art
i hurt.
i'm in a very Indigo Girls place in my life and i know at least one person who will for sure understand what that implies.
i'm living in a perpetual day,
a constant waking consciousness,
full of haunting melodies
and unknown prophets
hiding behind 6-strings.
a pulpit of practical music
for those who prefer the impractical,
and i watch in dim light
through well worn eyes
while willingly she bares her soul
through chord progressions
exposing her mind at every expense
only to save her heart.
traveling blind in several directions,
flip a pic and go where it lands,
never running away,
just trying to find home.
(i will not impede her journey,
but would jump at the chance
to be a part of it)
i was at the abbey earlier tonight when i scribbled that out, sitting across from a friend that i run into maybe once every few weeks. i was writing page after page in one of my notebooks while she was on her laptop and it was almost awkward that it wasn't awkward. every 20 minutes or so we'd make eye contact with the silent understanding that it was time for a nicotine break, we'd do the small talk thing and then go right back to our separate worlds. we both acknowledge that we don't know each other well at all, but for some reason neither of us do anything to change that. we're completely comfortable in our silence. i'm not sure if i want that to change. it's oddly comforting to be on such casual, equal ground with someone.
then again it makes me miss the kind of friends i used to have. i miss being able to call someone up and say 'i'm not okay, let's go get coffee' and have it actually happen. any of those connections i had have since moved; i've never appreciated free long distance so much. i'm frustrated with everyone lately. it seems as though whenever i see someone i haven't seen a while the first thing they say is "your hair has gotten so long", and coming from those who used to really know me, it pisses me off. like my hair being a few inches longer is what matters. like that extension of me is all that's to be noticed. even after spending time catching up with them it's never mentioned what else has changed about me. it's always my hair, never what's now missing from my eyes. it feels like nobody is left who will look close enough to notice the darkened hue. how my eyes aren't the mood rings they used to be; it feels like they get closer to black every day. people seem as though they've grown when standing beside me, but the truth is i just don't stand as tall as i used to.
life has crippled my posture.
my body has aged twice as fast as the years pass.
i'm sick of having to explain myself. i want someone to listen to all the words i don't have to say. part of me wants to have all of the conversations that i know i shouldn't, express everything i should leave unsaid for fear of losing more people than i already have. maybe some of you wouldn't run at my blunt honesty, but know some who would. would you? lately my honesty has only made things worse; i'll stick with politely lying until i think the truth will do more good than harm.
there are just some people that i wish were here to notice.