rehabilitate my smile

This song is just particularly heartbreaking at the moment. I am not yet at the age where change and growing old and moving on  is relevant, but I am at an age to consider the possibility of these things actually happening. And it frightens me. I am not very accustomed to change, but I do crave new projects and aspirations and adventures, so for  my cravings to be completely fulfilled I am going to have to experience change. I wrote earlier on Tumblr about this song: ”You know when a song just has the effortless ability to reflect your thoughts? Yeah, well, that. This is breathtakingly beautiful. Every single word in this song feels like that painful bruise on your left leg that you’re never even sure how it came to exist, and while the bruise still lingers, it frustrates you, but when the bruise fades, you miss it a lot slightly. People always ask me why I care about small, insignificant, nugatory items - when in hind sight, they harbor hardly any value. But what is the point in value anyway? Surely history is a much more precious thing, the story behind it, the people who have come into contact with this item. So yeah, infact I would miss the patterns in my bed room ceiling, I would miss the ragged brush against my feet of my bedroom’s worn out carpet, I would miss looking in the mirror at the exact same position it’s been in for majority of whenever I purchased the mirror. And If I was offered something much more of use, something fancy and worth while, and it mean’t I would have to get rid of things like the above, I would gladly refuse. ” And I also wrote this in response: to leaving my house: I just realized that soon, in only a couple of years, I’ll have to say goodbye to the room I’ve lived in for all my life. I’ve had  the most intimate moments of my life in that space, those four  black and pink squished walls have literally been what i’ve classed as home - and nowhere else. Not only have I physically grown in that room, but mentally and emotionally, and whenever I evolved - so did my room. I shaped it up to contain so much history, posters, tickets, drawings, even small writing on the corner of the wall, even small cracks in the paint where I’ve scratched it, even splashes of eyeliner on the wall for when i’ve been carelessly flinging about my liquid - They are all memories and stories waiting to be told. I think about the people who have entered this room, all my friends - some may be distant to me now, some maybe even closer. I think about where they sat in the room, what we talked about, what age were we. I think about the patterns in the ceiling, how it reminded me of waves when I was a younger - And it gave me so much comfort  to analyse each twist and swirl.  I think about every time I’ve trotted up the stairs after late nights and collapsed on my bed and still not have been able to sleep, I think of the times where its rained ridiculously heavy and I’ve perched on the end of my window and reached out to feel it on the palm of my hands. I think about the view, how it changes every season, how the flowers grow or the leaves die; yet it still looks so familiar and safe. I think about the time coming when I have to close my door for the very last time, how my door will scratch against the carpet so it won’t shut properly and I’ll have to yank it until it slams. I think that I will smile at that very fact. ”

Both of these thoughts feel as true as they did when I wrote them - the only difference being  with time, these thoughts have certainly become more real. So real I feel they are almost edible.