The Problem With Protégés

I both desire and abhor the intelligensia.

Their ability to see beyond the average spectrum is a talent I crave for myself. And, yet, I have to crawl through the dust to get there, loathing that it is their pedestals I have to climb to reach my goal.

The Hangover

When we first broke up, I was condemned to that state of Limbo which left me continually unwanted. After owning every one of your glances, claiming every touch you made, left to be a void was inconceivable. And, so, my loneliness escorted me to all the places where love was worn out, into all the arms where it was merely a cuss word, trying to find you.

It was in these encounters I realised the error of making you from shards of people I never cared to know. It was not that I wanted a shrine to commemorate what I had lost.

I just wanted to be someone's attention again.

River Flows In You

Somehow the darkness lapping at the window reminds me of the night you began painstakingly stitching me together after the carnage that was Mr Ex.

I'd been published for the first time and we had just come home from the celebratory party where I began wedging my foot in the door and hoping it forged a gap big enough for me to crawl through. And, somehow, his ghost made the trek back home with us.

I sat on your cramped bed and sobbed this ghost lose while you held me tightly, replacing his touch gradually with yours, then ran me a bath to purge myself of a sadness that seemed unsuited for that evening, for the smiles I should have been wearing. Deep in the depths of that water, I think I found an essence of myself that had been stranded and striking for shore since he left.

And it reached port as we sat on the edge of your windowsill, claiming a sliver of night for ourselves. Our feet cooling against the rooftiles beneath us, we watched the stars and moonlight with the same intensity as I watch the night now, watching the darkness loop a memory back, its arms bundled with the peace I felt emanating from you then.

Under Rug Swept

I used to think that this album was written for the tragedy of me and you. In the years that form a barricade between us, it becomes more and more apparent.

I remember listening to this song and thinking that this would be how it ended, this is how I'd perceive you when Time had given my aging eyes a rosed glint. The end apparent before the beginning had even graced the horizon.

I wonder how far beneath the rug you have swept us, whether the sins of ourselves are condemned to pure shadow, or whether you air them occassionally, batting off the tears that undoubtably have grown there during your negligence.

We became a secret because we thought we deserved to be unspoken. We took a greedy, ashamed take on our love and that was our condemnation in the end.