you pick a place thats where i'll be
I yelled at people recently, and it felt good. Accusations or frustrations, commiserations or condemnations, it felt good.
Sometimes my social graces crush me under the weight of their honeyed conversation pieces, in flagrant dichotomy with how I was once perceived. Now, like a Marxist uprising, I have seized both the methods of perception but also the perceptions themselves. My thoughts wander about eastern european princesses and a lack of knowledge. Acts of communication so broadly defined as to even include and not necessarily involve are contraband.
This music reminds me of you, infuriating in content but so immensely beautiful in form. I wish that my affectations weren't diminished because of the quantity of affections. So much is given, so much praise or support or so-called love, that what I offer is never even noticed. Par for the course. But it all piles up, like so many prayers on rice paper, and, in the end amounts to nothing more than ashes and dust as sacrifice. Maybe that's what you want. The work of the sculptor is ignored, slowly chiseling away at granite, so much that his hands begin to run red under the effort. I'm not even sure I want to be here, but it's my piece, and I will catch you if I can. And, of all of them, mine is legitimate. Run around with a midnight blanket over your head, you'll convince yourself eventually that the moth holes are stars, and forget that the real ones burn far enough away that you will be long dead before the light ever reaches you.
Sometimes blessings hurt. Alot. I am not so naive to think that my situation isn't good.
I'm forgetting you again, and in some bizarre way I remain yours. I even have trouble writing about you, despite the fact that you haunt my thoughts more than I probably let on to anyone. Some know, but that comes from deduction not observation. I miss you, and all your imperfections, and, sometimes, I wonder, perhaps because of them. All I can manage is a Please come back to me even when you've never really left, but it describes how I feel. I'm busy these days, so I'm not even sure I'd have time, but I'm fanciful too.
Albeit more practical.
Written On: Home Computer
Currently Listening: Wolf Parade - Apologies To The Queen Mary
Sometimes my social graces crush me under the weight of their honeyed conversation pieces, in flagrant dichotomy with how I was once perceived. Now, like a Marxist uprising, I have seized both the methods of perception but also the perceptions themselves. My thoughts wander about eastern european princesses and a lack of knowledge. Acts of communication so broadly defined as to even include and not necessarily involve are contraband.
This music reminds me of you, infuriating in content but so immensely beautiful in form. I wish that my affectations weren't diminished because of the quantity of affections. So much is given, so much praise or support or so-called love, that what I offer is never even noticed. Par for the course. But it all piles up, like so many prayers on rice paper, and, in the end amounts to nothing more than ashes and dust as sacrifice. Maybe that's what you want. The work of the sculptor is ignored, slowly chiseling away at granite, so much that his hands begin to run red under the effort. I'm not even sure I want to be here, but it's my piece, and I will catch you if I can. And, of all of them, mine is legitimate. Run around with a midnight blanket over your head, you'll convince yourself eventually that the moth holes are stars, and forget that the real ones burn far enough away that you will be long dead before the light ever reaches you.
Sometimes blessings hurt. Alot. I am not so naive to think that my situation isn't good.
I'm forgetting you again, and in some bizarre way I remain yours. I even have trouble writing about you, despite the fact that you haunt my thoughts more than I probably let on to anyone. Some know, but that comes from deduction not observation. I miss you, and all your imperfections, and, sometimes, I wonder, perhaps because of them. All I can manage is a Please come back to me even when you've never really left, but it describes how I feel. I'm busy these days, so I'm not even sure I'd have time, but I'm fanciful too.
Albeit more practical.
Written On: Home Computer
Currently Listening: Wolf Parade - Apologies To The Queen Mary