seashell curls

Sometimes I am struck by the beauty of things I take for granted. Like, the Smiths. They make me want to scrawl their lyrics all over the walls, my body, the ceiling, every single sheet of paper I can find. I want to drip candle wax onto the desk and carve their words into the cooling mass. What I love about this band is that their songs are very separate from themselves--I never think about them performing or singing or what it would be like to see them play. I've seen a lot of bands in my time, and I can't think of a more perfect band to never see. Something about the shadows my ceiling fan casts against the walls is more of an experience I'll ever need. The oddest thing about connecting so much and so dreadfully and for so many years with these songs is that if I ever go too deep into it, people question. Their lyrics are sad. Their sadness fills me up and takes away the self-importance of my own dull, selfish, everywoman sadness. But this sadness has been my closest companion since age fifteen. That's eight years of never letting me down. My oldest, dearest, most loyal friend. The friend who will never forget you.

I close my eyes, feel the weight of my being, the weight of my mind sinking me into the ground, and let the sound waves float me elsewhere.