If you could bottle my life the label would read "idyllic middle class living", and it'd be uncorked not with a pop but with the rustle of broadsheets over coffee on Sunday mornings, the halting tinkle of childhood piano lessons, the cascading laughter of loving friends. It'd smell of summer evenings in a lucious garden, of real christmas trees and slowly baking fruit cakes, of freshly washed embroidered bedsheets. People would buy it and never understand the clawing emptiness that lies just beneath all I do, the almost-constant feeling that I'm missing something; some indefinable "thing" that other people simply must have, because they smile in that contented way and in their eyes I see no sense of lacking. Sometimes it feels that everything is my life is so transient and intanglible that I can't get a decent grip on anything, can't place any roots and I'm constantly struggling against nothing, stumbling as ground erodes beneath my feet...this is the best description I can produce because the very feeling itself is hard to fully grasp, like a shadow glimpsed in the corner of an eye. At the moment everything is Radiohead and dreaming of Oxford. This, at least, is something definite, something I can aim for or cling to whatever it is that I want. I will give up reading things I shouldn't, I will finish Wuthering Heights and begin other such classics, I will form actual opinions on romanticism, I will do all my college work (even psychology), I will eat less chocolate, I will stop worrying my parents by inexplicably bursting into tears, I will actually read prospecti instead of skipping to the English page and dismissing them as not Oxford. I will.
< - >
* the marks of memories forgotten
* wasting emotions, over again
* intentions, and such
* nothing unusual, nothing's changed - just a little older, that's all (damien rice : amie)
* now I understand! It doesn't make sense because it isn't supposed to
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