There is a point when the music stops and there is an eerie hush in the room. I notice how your words are laced with a quiet resignation. You’d rather not have anything to do with anyone right now, but I claw into your time and you let me. Do you know people whose time you want to claw into?
You don’t like sugar coating things; you don’t appreciate it when I do. In the striped down version of my life, I still feel the same way. Underneath the fanciness of hope and the promising poetry of regret and love lost, I still think the same things and the same things run around my head in confused circles.
I grew up in the room I sleep in now. My thoughts jumped through all kinds of hoops under starched sheets with block printed birds and dancing women. In the dark room with the whirring fan, I hold on to the ends of my sheets and think of all this. I think of you, lying in your own bed not particularly far away, thinking thoughts of a greater magnitude. Thoughts of different countries and of something powerful that you read or saw or heard. I can almost imagine the sound of your fingers flying over your laptop keys, making small music of a very comforting variety.
There is a small space between sleep and deep sleep, where my thoughts of you give way to bigger thoughts of open roads and stuffed backpacks. I feel the lines of my thoughts blur into something more daunting, where everything is happy but not without an intimidating edge. I don’t find myself complaining though. If everything lets you believe that you’ve made it, complacency is not far behind. It isn’t a mature thought per se, but more a voice of experience – that usually the things that are the most satisfying are the ones that had you trembling with worry at first.
Worry isn’t the worst of things. It is a sign that there is something out there that is worthy of your apprehension.
Some days my thoughts are compelling; some days they are shamefully mundane. Some days, I can't tell which type they are. On all days, you are somewhere in them.
You don’t like sugar coating things; you don’t appreciate it when I do. In the striped down version of my life, I still feel the same way. Underneath the fanciness of hope and the promising poetry of regret and love lost, I still think the same things and the same things run around my head in confused circles.
I grew up in the room I sleep in now. My thoughts jumped through all kinds of hoops under starched sheets with block printed birds and dancing women. In the dark room with the whirring fan, I hold on to the ends of my sheets and think of all this. I think of you, lying in your own bed not particularly far away, thinking thoughts of a greater magnitude. Thoughts of different countries and of something powerful that you read or saw or heard. I can almost imagine the sound of your fingers flying over your laptop keys, making small music of a very comforting variety.
There is a small space between sleep and deep sleep, where my thoughts of you give way to bigger thoughts of open roads and stuffed backpacks. I feel the lines of my thoughts blur into something more daunting, where everything is happy but not without an intimidating edge. I don’t find myself complaining though. If everything lets you believe that you’ve made it, complacency is not far behind. It isn’t a mature thought per se, but more a voice of experience – that usually the things that are the most satisfying are the ones that had you trembling with worry at first.
Worry isn’t the worst of things. It is a sign that there is something out there that is worthy of your apprehension.
Some days my thoughts are compelling; some days they are shamefully mundane. Some days, I can't tell which type they are. On all days, you are somewhere in them.
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