*facepalm*

The shelving units have been ready all summer, but I still prefer to sit in the middle of piled-up paperwork, curled-up Post-Its, CD covers and photographs bound in twine that formed a curious barricade on one side of my room.

And whenever someone asks when I'd get around to organizing stuff, I just tell them that there are things that simply can't get done for shit. That answer, coupled with a broody undertone, somehow gives me the sinking feeling that I'm trying to talk about something other than the sudden loss of my compulsive urge to tidy up.

At some point it's going to be just a little bit rude to leave things as they are, cuz after all, he lives here too. Right now, he's lost in a shuffle of his own messy bits in the downstairs anteroom, but sooner or later he's gonna pick up on my slack - and it would only be when he'd start getting curious that I'd wrinkle my nose at the idea of conformity and begin throwing words out like standards (and probably something stupid like boundaries); then he'll tell me to do whatever the hell I want since I can't deal--

Oh.

Oh.
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Confessional

I planned on doing a cover of Empire of the Sun's Walking on a Dream in Amsterdam (maybe I still will); this version by Kate Miller-Heidke just knocked my socks off. A great interpretation with soul, baby.



Walking on a dream
How can I explain
Talking to myself
Will I see again

We are always running for the thrill of it thrill of it
Always pushing up the hill searching for the thrill of it
On and on and on we are calling out and out again
Never looking down Im just in awe of whats in front of me

Is it real now
When two people become one
I can feel it
When two people become one

Thought Id never see
The love you found in me
Now its changing all the time
Living in a rhythm where the minutes working overtime

Catch me Im falling down
Catch me Im falling down

Dont stop just keep going on
Im your shoulder lean upon
So come on deliver from inside
All we got is tonight that is right till first light
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twice upon a time

While others find their strength in holding on, your strength comes from letting go.

As if it had taken far too much giving to be this empty. I can only take.

(But this is the part I don't say out loud.)

When lives are forged upon lives, our parallel stories start anew, and every fragment of ourselves we don't relinquish to the other --

(His stretched-out soul still burned with rancor and desire left over from the storm that all started with her promise, long , long ago.)

"Stay," he almost snarled his plea as he watched her part the ocean and made it run in streams, taking her further and further away. "It's me."

He gorged on her insolence, and let it turn him into something shrouded and cold (and just as scary.)

(And so when he saw her walking towards him where he sat staring at the water, he was unimpressed.)

He knew he reflected in her glasslike eyes the acrimony, the eternal hurt.

She tipped his chin and smiled. "Cheer up some. One of us shouldn't spend a lifetime mourning something we can't define."

He drew his face away.

"Another waits for you." She glanced back at the water, her expression strangely impassive. "But you won't find her here. You have to leave this place."

"Will she live forever?" His voice, unused for so long, came out as an angry, cynical bark. It startled him.

She placed a hand over his arm, daring him to shake her off. "No, but once you find her, you'll have your humanity back. Consider it a gift."

"I was never angry with you," he lied, partly because he felt afraid again. "I was just sad because I thought you've lost your way."

"I'm here," she replied simply.

(He knew better than to look further. The promise of the morning was about as far as they got.)

He sighed, his gaze drawn to the mass of loose waves and tendrils that cascaded halfway down her back, gleaming chestnut in the dying sun.

Unbidden, he reached out. "In my dreams, you wore your hair like this."

She leaned into this touch, to the flowing warmth that pulsed from his palm, and pretended that she was living too.

("...let me become the shadow of your shadow, the shadow of your hand...")
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fashion statement

"So what do you think eh?"

"Riigghhttt."

"C'mon, who doesn't want a touch of irony here and there?"

"The only place that's touched by any kind of irony is your head."

"What?"

"Ok, but not when we're out in public together."

"Aww, where's the fun in that?"

"You know, I think you're having way too much fun with this."

Well, he did agree to be the straight man to my riot act (shrugs)

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