That so much I write is full of those words.
You are a hard person to care about.
Actually, loving you to start with is annoyingly easy, as is over idolising you.
Being with you and thinking of you makes me into this crazy washing machjine of versions of myself.
I feel five and twenty five all at once.
The five year old who is swayed by your actions and opinions on everything all the way down to whether or not I would like a coffee. It is as though you are the very embodiment of clique, of cool. I know you are probably not what modern society would call cool, but I have never agreed with society, perhaps as a rule. Perhaps there lies the basis of your appeal, you are different but you still have friends.
You think things, do things, believe things.....drink too much.
And therin lies the twenty five year old in me. The love and adoration of the five in me produces this uncanny need to hold you close and protect you from further pain, heal that which has already been inflicted upon your beautiful shining soul.
You make me so angry.
At you, they world, myself.
The world for hurting you, you for thinking too lowly of yourself and I too highly.
I know not the existence of middle ground. Or how to get there if it is indeed a tangible place.
I get so angry at myself for wanting to follow you around like a lost puppy and still protect you.
I dont make any sense.
Even as I write that, I doubt it. I think maybe Im scared to make sense, to be understood.
If Im not a mystery then Im hardly interesting now am I.
Maybe I feel as though I am less important if I am understood, less me.
Im so indy pop. Longing to be mysterious, alternative, indy cool, but still socially accepted, still popular.
Different enough to stand out and be noteworthy, but not so radical that I repulse the common folk, non conformist but easy on adoring eyes.
Love on my terms.
Im not important, not really. Not at the level I place myself.
Funny that I can write that, but my heart, mind, soul do not really acknowledge it.
I am selfish
I am not clean
of any real importance in the big picture
I fear that scarecrow has given up searching for his brain, lion has found just enough courage-substitute to get by and the tinman has his paper heart.
Dorothy however, finds no such temporary satisfaction only more questions in both Kansa and Oz.
She must find a Toto to help her keep believing that she will find a wizard and not a man behind a curtain...
And she must search for him and for herself, for a long and hard while yet, with only a promise to hold to.
Truly, that should be enough, but when all her friends have shiny new hearts and brains and courages, it is harder than ever when they say 'so what did you get for christmas?'
'...I got a baby born to a virgin and destined to die, 2000 years ago, I've never seen his face. Felt his touch and heard his voice though.'
'That could have been anyone! Buddha, Allah, Vishnu, or even Zeus!'
'But...I think it was jesus'
'But what reliability is mortal musings?'
Then Dorothy has no answer, naught at all but doubt.
So why then does she not carry on alone?
Could she leave them?
Could she bear to have naught but the company of a wizard she cannot see?
Ah slippery promises...
All I know for sure is this
I don't belong here,
no I dont belong here
Ill carry my cross and sing where I dont belong
Easy living, easy dying
Come on and let me down
'Cos I dont belong here
The Light Through Rafters
18 hours ago