Now I'm listening to Ingrid Michaelson...
"The sun had painted pretty patterns on your face as you breathed Sunday air, and rolled onto my open arm. I became your pillow, you let smooth your hair."
From "Morning Lullabies".
Why is it that every time I've gotten this little window into intimacy, into calm, into quiet, that it closes abruptly with something so stupid as mentioning a dream that's dead before it began?
"Let me lie in the curve of your body tonight, and I will hear you tumble into sleep. I will watch you heal, I'll watch you heal with me. I will sing you morning lullabies, you are beautiful and peaceful this way. I know you have to close your eyes on everyone, let me help you, I'll sing you to sleep with morning lullabies."
It's necessary that if you're reading this, that you listen to this song, and I hope you understand why it makes me feel so tired, so sad, so broken.
Ingrid, you make me cry with your incredible music.
"In the salty sea, I find you're all but gone. Take my hand, you're treading water, and I feel sand slipping away from underneath our toes. Nobody knows; where is it she goes?"
So this is what i've been doing this morning since he left...I knocked over a cup of tea I just made, and fell to the floor, cleaned it, and cried about it. What is going on with my goddamn brain?
Where is my brain going?
Why do I so desperately want something that will "end my life", "ruin my youth", and is something that he so loathes to think about? We discussed it again today. We've been togehter 5 months and look at me, leaping into the end of the world.
"Where is it she goes, when those sad eyes close?"
I want a piano.
It's been decided, I want to play and sing, and feel the music transport me like it used to. I miss the magic that came with creating music with my hands.
"What if we stop having a ball? What if the paint chips from the wall? What if there's always cups in the sink, what if I'm not what you think? What if I fall further than you? What if you dream of somebody new? What if I never let you in, chase you with a rolling pin, well, what if I do? I am giving up, on making passes, and I am giving up on half empty glasses, and I am giving up on greener grasses, I am giving up."
God, I'm fucked up.
I need to be on medication or something. I need my personality type to match his. I need to be energetic, playful, creative. I need to be a kid, I need to be a young person, not an old lady in a twenty year old body who's too exhausted to do anything. I need to be better, for his sake, for my love. I need to. And for whatever reason, my body is not responding to the ultimatum I'm trying to give it. I don't know why.
Why do I want this so much? What's wrong with me?
Why am I putting this in an internet document, much less? Why am I not spurting this to the people who really matter, who will really listen? Why am I drowning in Ingrid Michaelson and pouring my troubles out to an anonymous, non-existant audience?
"It's fairly simple to cut right through the mess and to stop the muscle that makes us confess. We are so fragile, our cracking bones make noise, and we're just breakable, breakable, breakable girls and boys."
Sometimes I want to hug and never let go.
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