Lose your mind, lose it twice
I'm the face in your dreams of glass
But I crash in my mind, whenever you are near
Never was one for a prissy girl
It's just my way to get by
A dreamer of pictures I run in the night
These precious things
Every time you cry
And Sunday always comes too late
Locked up safe she explores her pain
I dream of you tonight
And I wait... without you
I think I've gone insane
I look at the world and I notice it's turning
I I I tried I'm sorry
I'd forgot for so many years in spite of my fears
The more you change the less you feel
Came the last night of sadness
A moment so wonderful, a diamond so precious -
A beauty beyond compare...
I'm listening to the songs all those lyrics came from and feeling weird. Please excuse me while I wibble.
I keep thinking back over the year - I know I should stop - I don't do it on purpose, my neurons just wander off on a default musing... I guess because it was such a screwy year. A lot of it was very fucked, what with the depression and the suicidal tendencies and the drinking and the hallucinations and the break-ups and gods know what else... but some of it was really fun... and yeah, what worries me is that the fun bits were happening at the same time as the fucked bits - sometimes the fucked bits were fun... But then we always knew I was irreparably insane.
I have a lot of things to do... and I'm not doing any of them. But then again, out of my list none of them would be considered as actually worthwhile by most of the world. They doesn't generate money, they don't even generate anything lasting or especially far-reaching. I'd feel better if I had a fulltime job - but I'd also feel bored and bloody miserable. Fuck, I want to be published. I want to be paid for all this shite I waste my time on, all these dreams and visions that signify nothing to anyone but me... They're all I can do. They're all I really want to do. They're all - all - *shrugs* They are all.
There are so many things I want and they're all just varying degrees of impossible. And no, I really do want them, and have wanted them, and always will want them with a low-burning intensity that hurts whenever I let myself remember that I can never have them.
I want to make a decent living from my stories and my pictures and to give a dreams and ideas to whoever looks at them.
I want to return the shadow to the boy who lost it.
I want a pair of pitch black raven wings - I don't even want to fly with them - just to unfurl them and stretch them high above my shoulders in a salute to the sky.
I want to own 50 Rusham Road as a House of the Lost where my friends can live if they want and we can all keep an eye on each other.
I want to be a waif.
I want to be able to gift good fortune to those who need it and a metaphysical shovel round the head to all bastards.
I want to be beautiful, and have gnosis of the fact.
....I don't want to waste away my life waiting on dreams and wishes and the impossibility of happiness I can't have or hang on to
But I crash in my mind, whenever you are near
Never was one for a prissy girl
It's just my way to get by
A dreamer of pictures I run in the night
These precious things
Every time you cry
And Sunday always comes too late
Locked up safe she explores her pain
I dream of you tonight
And I wait... without you
I think I've gone insane
I look at the world and I notice it's turning
I I I tried I'm sorry
I'd forgot for so many years in spite of my fears
The more you change the less you feel
Came the last night of sadness
A moment so wonderful, a diamond so precious -
A beauty beyond compare...
I'm listening to the songs all those lyrics came from and feeling weird. Please excuse me while I wibble.
I keep thinking back over the year - I know I should stop - I don't do it on purpose, my neurons just wander off on a default musing... I guess because it was such a screwy year. A lot of it was very fucked, what with the depression and the suicidal tendencies and the drinking and the hallucinations and the break-ups and gods know what else... but some of it was really fun... and yeah, what worries me is that the fun bits were happening at the same time as the fucked bits - sometimes the fucked bits were fun... But then we always knew I was irreparably insane.
I have a lot of things to do... and I'm not doing any of them. But then again, out of my list none of them would be considered as actually worthwhile by most of the world. They doesn't generate money, they don't even generate anything lasting or especially far-reaching. I'd feel better if I had a fulltime job - but I'd also feel bored and bloody miserable. Fuck, I want to be published. I want to be paid for all this shite I waste my time on, all these dreams and visions that signify nothing to anyone but me... They're all I can do. They're all I really want to do. They're all - all - *shrugs* They are all.
There are so many things I want and they're all just varying degrees of impossible. And no, I really do want them, and have wanted them, and always will want them with a low-burning intensity that hurts whenever I let myself remember that I can never have them.
I want to make a decent living from my stories and my pictures and to give a dreams and ideas to whoever looks at them.
I want to return the shadow to the boy who lost it.
I want a pair of pitch black raven wings - I don't even want to fly with them - just to unfurl them and stretch them high above my shoulders in a salute to the sky.
I want to own 50 Rusham Road as a House of the Lost where my friends can live if they want and we can all keep an eye on each other.
I want to be a waif.
I want to be able to gift good fortune to those who need it and a metaphysical shovel round the head to all bastards.
I want to be beautiful, and have gnosis of the fact.
....I don't want to waste away my life waiting on dreams and wishes and the impossibility of happiness I can't have or hang on to