theres nothing sadder then longing for the days back when i first got into the  stones. it was a good time.  i was 16.

i’m trying to be brave, trying to fix the most destroyed bridge.  trying to recall every step of my past so i can figure out when i was paying attention and when i was in a completely  different reality. trying to decide if its worth fixing, or letting go of completely. but i can never let go of anything, i’m a traditionalist….i think. 

i’ve lived in canada for well over a year, technically i am an official resident. technically. technically i have to be living in one spot for a year to be a resident, and i’ve already lived in two places. what a year. what a fucking year.

i am very sad, because of the blatantly obvious…which is hard to describe…but all in all sticking out like a sore thumb. if its too dramatic to swallow, then you haven’t been paying attention.  and if you don’t care, then why bother wasting space in your head with thoughts of me and my bull shit? i am my own, and i have every reason to be my own. and god help me, i have nothing to do with the rest of the bullshit. i’d sooner cut off every cord that can contact me then try to assimilate with it.  but a part of me desperately needs to believe that there are people out there who still care about me. i want them to remember me.  i want them to love me.  i want everything about me to be ignored and accepted simultaneously.

most of all i want to pretend that nothing ever happened. that i never existed. that i was so much better than i really was. that i was loved and appreciated.  that i was smart, talented, right. desire, envy, pain and lust. a waste of time. a waste of my time.

where would i be? i don’t know.

music was my life. perhaps is was my conclusion for the existence of god. now  i know  it was an escape from everything, the people, the noise, the world.  it was my one time, aside from sleep (which i didn’t really have a say in anyway), that i could turn myself off and completely indulge in the fantastic sounds filling my head (thanks to a nice big outside world blocking set of sony headphones). my shiny violet colored discman, covered in stickers i had collected throughout the years; a shiny sponge bob sticker, a "no smoking" sticker.  a small cartoon drawn in silver marker, the kind that made your head burn no matter how far you held your nose back from the oozing silver ink. i loved my  cd player. i think it might have been my best friend.