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circling the thought
"Famous Prophets (Stars)" by Car Seat Headrest
Did I fail? Did I fall?
(In the morning when I wake up, are you mine?)
Did I waste my time, waste my time on a broken heart?
(Take the trash out like a bad dream, are you gone?)
Or is this the start of the great silence?
(From the old house, the fiercest heart spoke, are you mine?)
Is this the start of every day?
(Christmas tree's dead, you know how time flies, are you gone?)
May 11, 2018 Friday 10:38 PM
This bass gets into your bones. And this part, the lyrics I've posted above, that part of the song is so so so lovely and so sad, especially in the context of the whole album. I am right now sad. Very sad. Or not sad so much as empty and restless. Spooned out, measured into a cup. Drink drink drink up my innards—with some water, so as not to let my organs dissolve and get caught in the peristalsis of my esophagus.
The part where he says, "The ocean washed over your grave/ the ocean washed open your grave," is more like: "the OH-cean washed OH-ver your graaaave.... the OH-cean washed OH-pen your graaaave..." That and the steady bass, the fluctuating guitar, the beating of the drums—it is like the waves slamming down onto the sand and hissing as they recede, of breakers shouldering the rocks at the base of a cliff in quick succession. That is the sound of this song as it slams slams slams into you, pulls back and rushes forward all at once, tugs you, rushes into the tide pools, smooths over the divots in the sand, curls under itself.
I don't want to talk about why I am sad, so I don't know why I am writing. I am not sure what else to do. I really just want to get drunk and forget about all this. But I probably shouldn't drink to cope. I will be drinking later—but hopefully by then my mood will have improved. I just want to feel better! I am so frustrated. Sometimes I can't sleep and I just think so much. It is overwhelming. I don't want to think about these things. I don't want to be lonely. I don't want to want anything. I just want to do: do, do, do. And not feel taxed when I do. Although I suppose it is inevitable.
Why do I have to fantasize so much? It is very hurtful to me, I think. Makes me prone to disappointment and nightmares. Because it's like I've already constructed the things I'm scared of in the hopes that if I see them coming it will hurt less when it hits. But instead I just have nightmares and sometimes it fucks with me through the day. But I don't not want to have nightmares—I like their surreal horror. I just don't like when they present to me an idea which burrows under my skin and festers. That, I suppose, is the true nature of nightmares and it is generally why people don't like them. When I say I like nightmares, I am only saying I find them aesthetically and narratively interesting. To actually have them is only pleasant if I am graced with objectivity and unaffectedness when I wake up. If the emotions stay with me—that is the horror.
My nightmares aren't even nightmares as it is. They're bad dreams. Nightmares wake you up; mine rarely bring me into wakefulness.
I am long. I am very long. I want to get out of my head-skull please. I may take a walk. I may put my things back into my room and then take a walk through the night and listen to the whole Twin Fantasy album, since that is a good thing to listen to in the dark. I will be sad. Maybe I will cry somewhere. Oh, that'd be nice. I just need to walk, I need to move, I need need need need. Something.