I might not know how to clap on the rhythm, and I sure as Hell don't do too good at keeping a cycle, but there is one thing I got going regular like clockwork, and that's the need to leave every time the heat arrives. I wish I could tell you it's just about the heat, about escaping, about swimming every day to break the sweat on my own taut skin. Only, it's not.
I get this feeling of needing to be someplace else. In a different life. Exploring, perhaps, foreign shores. Every year. I get excited at what it means to run, and wish the life I have didn't insist on reading it as an indictment. I just need to see what it's like to be in a different place for a while. And I know I'm too flighty by much. I know I make it hard to hang your trust on my words, since I change my mind often. Some might say too much.
Maybe I should dissolve everything I have and pack my feet in a suitcase for a while.
Maybe I'd be better-served leaving in storage my mouth.
I'm out here, not bearing it well. It's nice, but it's cozy, and I thought last week that was what I was looking for. I make more noise than is good for me, and jump from topic to topic. I change my mind, and wonder sometimes if it's a permanent way of thinking. Will I be changing my mind always?
I'd love to settle inside a place and life. But usually between departures. Between coming back and going out. Not to say I'm unhappy, just flighty. Taken by a aching for the road, for the fragility and briefness that is my life. I want to taste a bit of everything before, but it seems with each new discovery, they add a carousel of twelve new flavors to the batch.
"Maybe it's my destiny to go from house to house."
And for a while, he was right. Where is it easier, moving from flavor to flavor than in romance? I knew him in running, very fast and very far, the way you sometimes recognize people like you'd known them before. Attraction via recognition. Stands to reason, then, he'd write poems I saw myself in much.
Do strays like us really want a house? Sure, but let it taper often at the ends, in a way that lets that gipsy soul hang always a way out. I know always the very real risk in myself of doing a runner. Of being nobody's child again, and the secret pleasure I take in it.
I wanna run away.
Escape. Scarper.
Make myself scarce.
Not from you. With you. To pull taut at the string so it coils around both our ankles and we've no choice but to gnaw ourselves out, or stay in it forever. Funny thing, that.
A friend showed me these songs the other day, and I thought I like more the thought of joy business than show business, and certainly more than businessy business. I'm working around and out of the point of it all, but I haven't decided yet, and risk running away a bunch more times before the answer's solidified.
This one felt like summer, which feels like freedom, which feels like begin again. So why not try?
Been in a very Miley mood, even if she's not my kind of jam anymore. I know I'm young, still, and fear sometimes I may not be as far as I would hope from my crazyness and my inner wild, the one that led me astray far too many times. But whatever. I resonate with this one, hence it's inclusion on my weekly sacrificial offering to 