I Wish You Could Remember My Name.
We're still screaming. Though it's really a 'me' and not a 'we'. And I'm not really screaming, since that would draw far too much attention. And for once in my life I'm actually trying to keep something to myself so I don't make it public business.
I'm so afraid of pushing you away, of making you feel weird or malcontented enough to think that maybe we just shouldn't speak. I know it probably won't happen, but the fear remains.
Low end frequencies are so incredibly soothing. Like a long slow pulse through my entire body.
Hum. Hum. Hum.
I read all these things and I'd like to hope they were you, though I know they're not; they can't be. You wouldn't even be familiar with the place, the thing. So I know it's not you.
Just give me a sign. Or don't really. I almost wish I hadn't told you about this. Or that. Both the big and the small.
But maybe I'm all wrong. Maybe all this tossing and turning. All these late nights (even by my standards), all these moments, minutes, hours of silence in my head where all I can do is think of you are just precursors to something bigger and better.
Though in my experience, things generally don't work that way.
We're still screaming.
But again, it's really just me. Without a voice. At least without the one I need.
Maybe if I was more confident. But maybe not.
So indecisive about every little detail. Even looking at the 'big' picture I try to process it all. That's probably my demise. Over-analyzation.
Pick pick pick pick pick. Nothing's ever good enough. Everything's too good. It all makes no sense. Nothing makes all the sense in the world though.
Maybe that's why I'm so content to lay in bed for hours and do nothing but tilt my head and stare at my wall. It's soothing, for some reason. There's everything in that little piece of wood. Frame by frame, inch by inch.
I really hope you don't read this, even though I told you about it. I'm sure I'll sound insane. It just drives everyone away. It was probably a mistake in the first place to tell anyone about this. But here I am.
On and on. Always.
I'm so afraid of pushing you away, of making you feel weird or malcontented enough to think that maybe we just shouldn't speak. I know it probably won't happen, but the fear remains.
Low end frequencies are so incredibly soothing. Like a long slow pulse through my entire body.
Hum. Hum. Hum.
I read all these things and I'd like to hope they were you, though I know they're not; they can't be. You wouldn't even be familiar with the place, the thing. So I know it's not you.
Just give me a sign. Or don't really. I almost wish I hadn't told you about this. Or that. Both the big and the small.
But maybe I'm all wrong. Maybe all this tossing and turning. All these late nights (even by my standards), all these moments, minutes, hours of silence in my head where all I can do is think of you are just precursors to something bigger and better.
Though in my experience, things generally don't work that way.
We're still screaming.
But again, it's really just me. Without a voice. At least without the one I need.
Maybe if I was more confident. But maybe not.
So indecisive about every little detail. Even looking at the 'big' picture I try to process it all. That's probably my demise. Over-analyzation.
Pick pick pick pick pick. Nothing's ever good enough. Everything's too good. It all makes no sense. Nothing makes all the sense in the world though.
Maybe that's why I'm so content to lay in bed for hours and do nothing but tilt my head and stare at my wall. It's soothing, for some reason. There's everything in that little piece of wood. Frame by frame, inch by inch.
I really hope you don't read this, even though I told you about it. I'm sure I'll sound insane. It just drives everyone away. It was probably a mistake in the first place to tell anyone about this. But here I am.
On and on. Always.
posted by Uncle Funky Pants at 6:43 AM
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