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Mar. 4th, 2013 08:50 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
rainspiritI should get moving. Get moving. Get, get, moving.
I count the minutes down. I watch them go by, trying in vain to understand how it is that everything depends so much on timing. It means my shame if I miss it. It means I won't have time to clean up. It means that I can't sleep in. Have to get moving, have to go.
Have to write, even if it's about nothing, even if it's circular repetition, because sooner or later I get off the roller coaster and go somewhere else, some other ride.
I started to 'get' David Bowie while on a bus on the way to the ferry. Started listening to Ground Control to Major Tom as I was trying to calm down, because I was on the journey straight to a ferry terminal, and had already known that there was no way I'd make it, short of a miracle.
I'm on the bus now on the way to school. If there's any better metaphor for not having agency of my own life, I can't think of one. I climb on and it takes me in a direction, towards a class, towards a degree. It's mostly unknowns to me. I can't even imagine what's on the other side. All I desperately want is there to be no more monotomy. But that's not a realistic view.
Trying to read my entries from ten years ago, on my LJ account. Painful. Yet how far have I evolved, beyond those awful quizzes ("YOU'RE A HERBIVORE FURRY") and the "yay for ______"?
"Planet Earth is blue, and there's nothing I can do..."
I'm starting to see the blanks in the parts of my writing where I backspaced over the words I meant to say.
Some music is for when you're vulnerable. Other music is for when you need armour. Wonder how many people have made that distinction, in what forms?
Times like this I wish I was a tragic lover. Even if that were a truth, it'd be a little too depressing to play a solo act.
Times like this when I wish I could express language in some other form. Music or another language. The words are becoming stale.
Melancholia is draining the magic from me.
I count the minutes down. I watch them go by, trying in vain to understand how it is that everything depends so much on timing. It means my shame if I miss it. It means I won't have time to clean up. It means that I can't sleep in. Have to get moving, have to go.
Have to write, even if it's about nothing, even if it's circular repetition, because sooner or later I get off the roller coaster and go somewhere else, some other ride.
I started to 'get' David Bowie while on a bus on the way to the ferry. Started listening to Ground Control to Major Tom as I was trying to calm down, because I was on the journey straight to a ferry terminal, and had already known that there was no way I'd make it, short of a miracle.
I'm on the bus now on the way to school. If there's any better metaphor for not having agency of my own life, I can't think of one. I climb on and it takes me in a direction, towards a class, towards a degree. It's mostly unknowns to me. I can't even imagine what's on the other side. All I desperately want is there to be no more monotomy. But that's not a realistic view.
Trying to read my entries from ten years ago, on my LJ account. Painful. Yet how far have I evolved, beyond those awful quizzes ("YOU'RE A HERBIVORE FURRY") and the "yay for ______"?
"Planet Earth is blue, and there's nothing I can do..."
I'm starting to see the blanks in the parts of my writing where I backspaced over the words I meant to say.
Some music is for when you're vulnerable. Other music is for when you need armour. Wonder how many people have made that distinction, in what forms?
Times like this I wish I was a tragic lover. Even if that were a truth, it'd be a little too depressing to play a solo act.
Times like this when I wish I could express language in some other form. Music or another language. The words are becoming stale.
Melancholia is draining the magic from me.