Lady sings the blues.

In my solitude
You haunt me
With dreadful ease
Of days gone by

In my solitude
You taunt me
With memories
That never die

I sit in my chair
And filled with despair
There's no one could be so sad
With gloom everywhere
I sit and I stare
I know that I'll soon go mad

In my solitude
I'm afraid
Dear Lord above
Send back my love

I sit in my chair
And filled with despair
There's no one could be so sad
With gloom everywhere
I sit and I stare
I know that I'll soon go mad

In my solitude
I'm afraid
Dear Lord above
Send me back my love

Until Further notice.

I have no internet.
Haven't for a week.
Which means no time to post anything.
And also means extra boring, boring evenings at home when nothing is on television and i need to search something very important!

Pointless nostalgic

seconds, minutes, hours, days and months go by.
I spend that time yearning for something that once was the present.
Whether it was mine or someone Else's is another thing in itself.
A lot of people do this though, i think; i hope.
Nostalgia for Nostalgia.
There is something romantic about it. But for some, it is the only thing that makes sense; the past that is. In a result, it is a sense of closure for certain individuals. To be surrounded by things that make you feel at home; regardless if you have an original connection to them. Like an old chair that smells of tobacco, or a glass jug.
Is it romanticism? Or do some people have a connection to their past life? making them desire to live it all once again. A little bit from collumn A, and a little bit from collumn B.

Be Drunk

You have to be always drunk. That's all there is to it—it's the only way. So as not to feel the horrible burden of time that breaks your back and bends you to the earth, you have to be continually drunk.

But on what? Wine, poetry or virtue, as you wish. But be drunk.

And if sometimes, on the steps of a palace or the green grass of a ditch, in the mournful solitude of your room, you wake again, drunkenness already diminishing or gone, ask the wind, the wave, the star, the bird, the clock, everything that is flying, everything that is groaning, everything that is rolling, everything that is singing, everything that is speaking. . .ask what time it is and wind, wave, star, bird, clock will answer you: "It is time to be drunk! So as not to be the martyred slaves of time, be drunk, be continually drunk! On wine, on poetry or on virtue as you wish."

-Charles Baudelaire

The end of it all

I have to drive
I have my reasons, dear
It’s cold outside
I hate the seasons here
I suffer mornings most of all
I feel so powerless and small
By ten o’clock I’m back in bed
Fighting the jury in my head
You learn to drive
It’s only natural, dear
You drive all night
We haven’t slept in years
We suffer mornings most of all
We saw you lying in the road
We tried to dig a decent grave
But it’s still no way to behave
It is a delicate position
Spin the bottle
Pick the victim
Catch a tiger
Switch directions
If he hollers
Break his ankles
To protect him
We’ll have to drive
They’re getting closer
Just get inside
It’s almost over
We will save your brothers
We will save your cousins
We will drive them far away
From streets and lights
From all signs of bad mankind
We suffer mornings most of all
Wake up all bleary eyed and sore
Forgetting everything we saw
(I’ll meet you in an hour
at the car)

unforseen circumstances.

I stumble through my days and nights it seems at the moment.
I am a "stumbler".
As i moved interpretively to the music this evening, i felt totally out of control of my antics.
It was nice to feel such a thing for a little while; to have no responsibility of one self for a few minutes. I stared intently at the particular person who has had my attention for a while, only wishing that i had theirs.

I now lay amongst blankets and pillows; being so fatigue that the sheets and pillows beneath me feel amazing and cold. Like one would imagine clouds would feel. This is how i like to end my evening; until i forget about it in daylight.

This is all i have to my life at the moment,
lost moments.
It ain't so bad; there's laughs along the way.