Tuesday, December 18, 2007


I'm on my guard, quiet and turned. I feel the breeze and the damp of the dawn float across the room, across the right side of my face. The left side is cradled in the warmth of my quilt, one eye closed, and all I can think of is the chatter of dry leaves…and the chill. But I keep watching, waiting. Waiting for the sound of the morning train, I’m waiting for a different sort of day to come.

I am weighted. I am weary. I am 17 years old and wondering if I'll ever stop feeling so alone. I keep listening to Glen Phillips' strange hollow tenor tell me of his every hope and disappointment and I nod my head in the dark. I understand. My adolescent heart is bedraggled. Its edges and outsides are as worn and frayed as the ancient, woven paper that covers the walls of this house.

High on a Riverbed

why try
when everything i do seems half right
how can i be satisfied
writing words from someone's else's lies

but sometimes i'm standing here
high on a riverbed
and light breaks through
everything feels good for a while
high on a riverbed

i see myself sometimes
vision is a mystery half blind
i wander through my life
wondering what i could be if i
if i

- Toad the Wet Sprocket, Pale

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