So I still dream about you. You pop up in the most bizarre places, at small town birthday parties, and downtown San Francisco, in a bunk bed, in my college roommate’s apartment. One second I’m looking into a new face, dreamt up full of possibility, and then, suddenly, it’s you, and we’re happy again. So happy.
But then the ship hits the iceberg, the zeppelin explodes, the hurricane lands. I wake up in a sweat, wondering where I am, and how I got here. I try to get out of bed, but I’m dizzy with thought and reeling from the hole in my heart, that for a night, was filled again.
Do I slip into your dreams, wearing disguises and running from you, like I do in real life? Like a conspicuous informant, I slink around town, patrolling our old spots, looking for evidence that we were there once, together. And I wonder if you might just show up and defy all odds. Do you wake up in the middle of the night with my name on your tongue, asking yourself how the world changed in an instance, a moment that’s barely describable? Sometimes I don’t want to know the answer.
Like all the truths of my heart, I keep the thought of you hidden way down deep inside, lest someone see me for what I am: a silent hostage to the past, an inept historian who keeps remembering things as I wish they had been, not as they were. Instead, I keep a smile on my face and look forward to slumber.
My Slumbering Heart May 4, 2010
I’m sad, but it’s nothing you’ve never seen before December 1, 2009
It’s true. I’m sad, but it’s nothing you’ve never seen before.
I hide in my cave, and I am reluctant to come out. Instead I lose myself in other worlds, dream-worlds and book-worlds and movie-worlds and song-worlds.
When I dream, I dream of you, and all is as it should be, until something twists and turns, and I wake up thinking, why?
When I read, I think about the adventures the characters go on, and how you and I could’ve gone on an adventure, and how I could still go on a solo adventure, but those are never as much fun as when you have someone to hold your hand and fight your demons for you, so I keep on reading and ignoring reality.
When I watch movies, I see how beautiful everyone is, and I think briefly about how I used to be beautiful until the self-destruction took over, and now I’m just bruised and beaten, slumped over in the makeup chair, unwilling to sit up straight.
When I listen to songs, I fall in love with whatever could be, like a swooning voice or haunting melody, and I twirl around in my thoughts and in my heart, and my eyes flutter with possibility…but then I sigh and remember that my voice means nothing and you never heard me anyhow.
When I write, however, I fall asleep in the spaces between the paragraphs, and come to life in the spaces between the words. My mouth opens up and I am filled by letters and symbols, and I am placated by my typewritten symphonies. My fingers play the keyboards like a grand piano, and sometimes I am Beethoven and sometimes I am a child in a music shop. One way or another, something comes out of my blood, and this is it.
I’m lost in a cave of my own making, sure. I’m alone and crying out for help, and sometimes you hear me and sometimes you go on with your life, and who could blame you? Sometimes I pack it all in and leave, and sometimes I just roll over and go back to sleep. Sometimes you should wake me, but sometimes
you should just let me sleep.
Yes, I am sad. But it is nothing you have never seen before.
Dear Ben Gibbard: Go fuck yourself October 7, 2009
Here’s my favorite riddle:
Am I a sad bastard because I listen to Death Cab for Cutie* or do I listen to Death Cab for Cutie* because I am a sad bastard?
*Also see: The Decemberists, anything that’s ever been on a Grey’s Anatomy episode, Elliott Smith, and many, many more.
So. Here are my playlists on iTunes:
Best of Pearl Jam
Breakup Music
Goodnight Moon (sleepy-time music)
Hardcore shit
Sad Bastard tunes
Sexy songs
You Know What**
**Denotes vibrator music
The underlying theme? I listen to a lot of sad music. In fact, the playlist I listen to most is “Breakup Music,” because I was going to make The One To Whom We Try Not To Refer To (aka Voldemort, aka The One That Got Away, aka The Love of My Life, aka The One Who Broke My Heart, aka All 130 Pounds of Him) a breakup cd, but I think making him two get-back-together cds (Aptly named “Dave Now” and “Dave Valentines,” in addition to making him the Best of X, which is sometimes sad bastard) was probably sufficient.
I know, I know. I shouldn’t do this. I already had my mom “yell” at me earlier (more of an [sigh] “Oh Molly. Just MAKE yourself get over him.” Thanks, Ma. What helpful advice…at least she is sending me a few scarves and hats for the forthcoming winter) for dwelling on and second guessing this whole breakup. Well, fuck. I was in love. I still am. It doesn’t just disappear like the many Newcastles I had tonight did.
You know what really kills me? My eyes. They literally hurt. Whenever I close them. I think it’s my subconscious, because when I sleep, I dream of him. All sorts of hims. Usually good ones. So I’m reluctant to fall asleep, because when I do, he’ll be there. When I wake, it’ll just be me and the pillow body next to me (I’ve always HATED body pillows, but more than once this summer, I’ve considered getting one). And Chester. God bless my bear.
So what do you listen to when your heart turns to black and all you can do is smoke cigarettes, do shots of his whiskey and drink “your” beer? Use your raspy voice to sing along in the mornings, when no one else is around, and take a long time getting dressed, trying to remember to wear lipstick, because you can now, there’s no one’s face or lips to smudge it on. And not know whose white undershirt it is exactly when you go to sleep. And try to sleep on both sides of the bed, or at least in the middle, although a queen is a lonely thing sometimes. And try to forget, forgive and move along.
But, dear reader, if you find yourself wallowing in pity and trying your damnest not to myspace-stalk someone whose heart still hovers in yours, listen to my breakup songs, and see if you find some comfort, some answers, and the realization that other people hurt, too*.
*But not in that gay, Michael Stipe-R.E.M. “Everybody Hurts” way. He’s just whiny.
The Scarlet Tide – Allison Krauss
Breath (2 AM) – Anna Nalick
What Can I Say – Brandi Carlile
Stay or Leave – Dave Matthews
Highway One – Dead Rock West
State Street Residential – Death Cab for Cutie
It’s Just That Everything I Try to Do, Nothing Seems to Turn Out Right – The Decemberists
The Engine Driver – The Decemberists
Jolene – Dolly Parton
No Name No. 5 – Elliott Smith
Good to Go – Elliott Smith
Sullen Girl – Fiona Apple
I Know – Fiona Apple
Know When to Walk Away – Jay Clifford
Last Goodbye – Jeff Buckley
The Fear You Won’t Fall – Joshua Radin
Love Will Tear Us Apart – Joy Division
Nowhere Warm – Kate Havanik
Clean Getaway – Maria Taylor
Inside Job – Pearl Jam
Hold On – Pearl Jam
Crown of Thorns – Pearl Jam covering Mother Love Bone
3 Libras – A Perfect Circle
Paint’s Peeling – Rilo Kiley
Please Read the Letter – Allison Krauss and Robert Plant
Feel It Coming – Sara Melson
The Difficult Kind – Sheryl Crow
Three Seed – Silversun Pickups [OUR song. Goddamnit.]
Where Does the Good Go – Tegan and Sara
Getaway – Train
Around My Heart – X
I Hate Myself and I Want to Die September 24, 2009
I love melodrama. And who was more melodramatic than Kurt Cobain? I mean, really. Plus, that Polly song really gets on my nerves. But anyway, OF COURSE he hated himself and wanted to die – he was married to Courtney Love. Enough said.
That said, I love gross exaggerations. As I have been lying in bed for the past five hours, not sleeping, but tossing and turning, I’ve thought to myself more than once, “I hate myself and want to die.” But really, I just want my insane headache to go away and to be able to sleep.
This is the second night in a row where I’ve been up until sunrise, which believe me, is not by choice. I already feel crappy and rundown this week – not sleeping is not helping. But although I have a pharmacy in my nightstand, I also don’t want to take anything to sleep…although yesterday I caved, took lorazepam, and fell asleep until 3 p.m. That’s right, I was up until 6 a.m., then again at 9 a.m., then woke up at around 3. Not ideal, people.
So why can’t I sleep? Am I having some sort of existential crisis that I’m not aware of? Have I forgotten HOW to fall asleep? It’s inane.
Back to melodrama. Judging by the rest of my posts, which were done under some sort of inebriation and/or enormous emotion, I DO have an existential crisis. See, I have been, and am currently, despite much effort, in love. With The One That Broke My Heart. And although I broke up with him, I still don’t WANT us to be apart. Even though I know it’s the best for both of us…well, especially me, since I’m melodramatic AND solipsistic. But I guess it doesn’t matter, since he told me he wanted it to be over, too. Hence the heart-breaking. Damn.
So I’m stuck with my decision, whether it’s the right one or not, and it’s keeping me up at night. All the questions, you know? Was that the right move? Does he hate me? Will we get back together? Should I give him his stuff back? Is he miserable without me?
And then the even bigger questions: Should I move on? Should I get under someone to get over the heartbreak? If so, should it be the easy choice? Should I look harder? Or should I just keep my pants on and deal?
And then the existential questions set in. What am I doing with my life? What would make me happy, fulfilled? Where should I go from here? Should I stay put? Should I move to SoCal? Should I move to Seattle? Should I move to an entirely different place? And if I do, what stays, and what goes? Should I be a nomad, or should I keep the things I’ve collected, like my furniture that I love?
And then, when I’ve asked all of these questions, and I am trying to clear my head and JUST. GO. TO. SLEEP. I ask myself mundane questions, like, what tattoo should I get next? Where? Should I get this quote or that quote? And speaking of quotes, should I paint one on my wall? And if so, which one?
AND ON AND ON AND ON.
It’s 5:40 a.m. and I have not gone to sleep, even for a second, tonight. Instead, I am riddled with questions.
And here’s another: How are you sleeping tonight?
