When I dream I dream of your lips
When I dream I dream of your kiss
When I dream I dream of your fists
Your fists... Your fists
Leave me bleeding on the bed
See you right back here tomorrow for the next round
Keep this scene inside your head
As the bruises turn to yellow
The swelling goes down
And if you're ever around
In the city or the suburbs of this town
Be sure to come around
I'll be wallowing in sorrow
And wearing a frown
What a nightmare. I don't even have the energy to know where to start.
I don't know if I can live in this lookinglass world. Or perhaps its Wonderland thats really home.
SPOILERS! (Click to view)
That is what I mean to say is I'm trying to work 40 hours a week, lease a one bedroom apartment, buy a dog. I'm trying to go straight, be legit, by the book. Before it was travelling city to city, lover to lover, never paying rent, twelve to eighteen hours a week of unmanaged, unsupervised petty cash. I had no control over it. It was romantic.
The point is I've been seizing control over my life. It was something I needed. But what you need won't always make you happy. I'm beginning to get a grasp (and by grasp I mean bicuspids piercing jugulars), a foundation to communicate of the invisible line I've drawn between happiness and control. My anxieties (although steadily weakening like the struggle of a hooked fish on the floor of a boat) have all stemmed from helplessness. For every action there is an equal and opposite reaction. I'm realizing what I've given up for what I've gained. The mysterious underground life I lived was ultimately more satisfying. Deep-down I already knew this but I needed to experience it myself to be satisfied.
To give a dirty, cheap, plain example: Chuck Palahniuk is a guilty pleasure. I know he is an author ignored by the 'well-read'. I know there are books you read for the story and books you read for the writing. I know which one Palahniuk is.
None of my new peers know this. Not one has even read Palahniuk. Or heard of him. I read more books in a week than these people do in a year. And I read trashy books...
/END RANT
/IN CONCLUSION
Once I went on dates, and even when they were bad, I could say it was actually Palahniuk who first told me about Portland Memorial Mausoleum. They would know what I was talking about even if they hadn't been. And they would take me to Elk Island before I knew it existed.
Once strangers would spin gold for me and yet I thought it'd be more satisfying to grasp at straws...
P.S. The trashy book I'm reading right now is 'Hearts in Atlantis'. But thats another entry in its own rite and I'll spare you the barrage for now.
Thank you!