"and if i could be who you wanted,
if i could be who you wanted,
all the time, all the time."
i was perusing this space, full of that sad stain of nostalgia that feels weighted and rough. one of those moments where i think i'll either start at the beginning and see what the fuck i was on about, or just stop all this writing. i guess the words are too strong, and the music, well i'm not ever able to let the music go. and it dawns on me, terms like synchronicity and fate, karma if you like, if you open your eyes up and listen to your insides, everywhere you truly look will have a gift to give.
i cannot give up the writing, nor the music, never, ever, ever. i may be lousy at love, but this, i think i just might be good at this.
turn back to the start of this space, and this is what i found (guess i needed to remember):
there are ways we decide to express ourselves; be it in the way we write, talk, think, dream, invest our time, or as i tend to do more often than not, through the music we listen to. i may wake up with invisible tape over my lips, rendering me silent and wordless, but what spins in my car stereo or streams through my headphones, is where most of my truths lie. sometimes i get lost in the twists and turns of a simple lyrical refrain, other times the simple pleas of a singer wailing into the mic reduce me to a pool of tears, or bring on such strength and renewal that i swear i could fly.
inside the songs i often hide confessions, longing and unnamed pain. it seems easier to tuck them away in a melody, and to throw them out into the ether of existence and airwaves - the music keeps all my secret wishes safe and sound. sometimes i tie ribbons around them, leave soft kisses on the curve of each note, slide them into a brown-paper package, and send them off to the hands and ears of someone else. they are my gifts of heart and mind, they are my love, my anger, my logic, and my dreams. music is connection to me, and if the receiver is too far away to touch, the songs are my offered hand to hold, my fingers entwined with theirs, my arms wrapped around them in a long embrace.
at times, the songs are enough to fill the ache and pull of distance and regret. other nights, though, they are the strung-out reminders of a damaged heart awash in loneliness. the liner notes are etched in a scrawl too convoluted to see clearly, but if i could make out the words, they would sound something like i miss you, i wish you woulda put yourself in my suitcase. and your un-written replies, well i imagine them alight in the burned spirals on that cd you sent; the one i still carry around with me everywhere.