great rock is written about great love

even i’m getting tired of useless desires.

“it’s like picking up a broken toy - what the fuck are you going to do with it now?!”

she’s lookin’ ‘round in emptiness, she’s missin’ all the good she left in her prom dress.

one day i will have no need for a blog that represents this really roller coaster place in my life. i will be married and have four, five, maybe six beautiful children and i will have left this bullshit a long time ago. it will be a distant memory i will only ever recall on brunch dates with the ladies and after a glass of wine and a half at dinner parties with my other grown up friends. i will be the lillian van der woodsen-bass of the upper north shore.

what happens on the rooftop, stays on the rooftop.

i thought i held you.

you’ve been gone for seven days and already i’ve finished steinbeck and haddon. i listened to jenny lewis and wilco like you told me to and still can’t get into it. i hear all the voices in the background during every call, while my line only echoes that fucking mix you made me before you left. i’ll probably end up loving it.

when you come home, i want you to walk through the door smelling like road trips and jack daniels. turn up the speakers and play me my favourite old crow medicine show record while i’m still sleeping. climb onto the bed and brush your lips against my neck as you trail your fingers across my cheek and tell me you thought of me while driving through the alps and standing in line for the eye. to the sounds of ketch socor’s flawless vocals echoing through the room, i will kiss you.

mayhem, i will be your lady.

i didn’t even say goodbye this time. just grabbed my belongings and left under the guise that i needed another cigarette.

i am starting to embarrass myself.

(meanwhile, a few towns over, there is a boy who is out with his friends. he sends me a text message to say, “i’m having a great time. i wish you were here though.”)

time will do the talking, years will do the walking, i’ll just find a comfy spot and i’ll wait it out.

i can’t seem to remember the last time i was driven, motivated and passionate. the last time i gave a damn, about anything at all really. that’s kind of sad, you know, being in the spring of my life and not caring in the least. i cry for the poor and the starved, i am sad for the crippled and the sick, but what does that amount to? what does that even mean? tears and emotion sickness are not passion. i remember, though only vaguely now, a time when i dreamed so vividly that i could taste it. more than that, i could touch it; my fingers running across the contours, the ins and outs, the reds and blues. i knew what it was i wanted and i went for it. i went for it knowing that it was impossible, i went for it without any mind to consequences; i went for it because i knew i could not live without it, i knew it was me.

and it’s sad, pathetic, that i don’t know that girl anymore. figuratively, literally. i look at her in pictures and cannot place her. my memories are hazy and i cannot piece them together. my friends look with me and they ask who she is, what she’s doing and where she is right now. i look at them and shrug. i wish i knew.

i fool myself into believing that this, whatever this is, is fine by me. maybe this, mundane and routine and grey as it all is, is my calling. maybe the song is right, maybe i was born for this. not all of us can shine as bright as the other, not every star is visible from where we stand. i trick myself into believing that a moment’s passion is enough, that the heat of the moment and the desperate grab of his fingers are comparable to what i used to feel. i tell myself i’m okay and that’s all that should matter, right? they say you never need more than what you have at any given moment. but what if that’s not true. what if it’s not enough. what if there’s so much more? how do i get there without drive, motivation and most of all, passion.

i feel so empty.

(you were so cruel and i hated bein’ your fool, so i got a little bit more mud on my face. but the years will bring a bigger scheme of things and make a pretty memory out of my disgrace.)

the evening of our great escape is startin’ to unfold.

i cried, “i’m drunk and i miss you.”

he said, “funny. i was just thinking about you.”

we have so much unfinished business.

oh there’s something ‘bout a man in black, makes me want to buy a cadillac, throw the top back and roll down to jackson town.

i find it fascinating that he exists. a boy who will tell me i am beautiful even when my mascara is running down my face and i’m cursing up a storm. a boy who is not afraid to take my hand in public, graze his lips across my fingers and tell his friends “that’s her, she’s the one.” a boy who says my lips are the softest he’s ever touched and that he’s lucky to kiss me. a boy who calls and messages just to say hey, how are you, i had fun last night when can i see you again.

i find it repulsive that i push him away. i push and i pull and i push and i pull, but he’s still here. still calling me beautiful, still kissing my hand and still sending messages just to see how i am. confused? perhaps. blown away? fuck yes. i have everything i have ever wished for in a man, and it’s not enough, it’s not you.

i feel out of place tonight.

i can’t tell in his eyes if he’s gonna cry or if he’s gonna fight.

“The world breaks us all. Afterward, some are stronger at the broken places.”
— Ernest Hemmingway