We're all in the gutter

I guess we all think we grow up, but some things you can never outgrow. It's coded into the very essence of you. Most of the time that's a comfort, but some nights it just feels like a prison.

There used to be a blog I'd read that tended to reflect melancholy nights like these when there's nothing but my own mediocre existence buzzing through my thoughts. In a way I suppose I was in love with the boy who wrote it. Not for the real person he (is)was, or the way he acted, or who he pretended to be. Just the simple words, on the other side of the keyboard, sitting in front of a screen when he should have be sleeping. Friends will say now "you had such a crush on him" but it was never him, it was just the words. The outpouring of the inner self of a depressive, insomniac, compulsive, control freak who acknowledged when the world overwhelmed him, both in the good and the bad. It alternately gave me something to think about, and something to grab hold of. Sometimes it just simply kicked my own thoughts back into drive - I would just write. Most of the time it was just the disconcerting familiarity that existed when someone seemed to mirror and capture your own thoughts so perfectly, that you would no longer feel alone or unique, and you didn't whether that was good or bad.

That blog no longer exists. I'm sure the words still do though, even if they're no longer meant for prying eyes. I can understand that. Growing up, after all. But I'll always remember. Maybe that will be enough. Though I'll always be missing that little something that complimented me so perfectly, when I knew it didn't matter whether I had a reason to feel what I feel or whether I could even put a name to it, because he knew what it was like.

I say this now because I'm teetering on the edge of recognition. I can feel it in the back of my mind, beyond this weird melancholy that came uninvited and stayed for dinner. The words and the feelings are churning around, a dull press against my eyes. All it takes is a well placed phrase and they'll come spilling out without rhyme or reason, paragraph or punctuation. Just images and phrases. Somewhere in there I recognise that I shouldn't need this push off the proverbial cliff. I shouldn't need a spark from someone else to set this night on fire. It'll happen by itself eventually, no doubt. Something will catch my eye, free my imagination and let the words flow. I just know this would be easier if that blog was still around, and this night would seem a little more productive with an end game for the whole tortured artist routine.

i am a wing and a prayer
ill give you heatstroke
you and i
gave our lives to strange times
ill take your sun
ill shake your son
and make him shine on you
ill sing all of your favorite songs
one more time
out of tune

Music: Across the universe - Rufus Wainwright
Mood: Pensive