The Unbearable Lightness of Being
Europe and new music. It's like a whole new world. At the end of it all, it's about experiencing new places; putting on new hats. Raindrops in Prague falling on my cheek as I look up to see a flying angel atop a Renaissance building. The sky moves faster here. More chances to see the sun peeking through a grey cloud. Some of the hats don't fit. Some of them do, but I don't like the way they feel.
Sometimes it's better to drink alone than with someone who doesn't hear the notes to a song quite the same way you do. Sometimes all you need is a few candles burning into the London night. Sometimes you need to escape to realize that all you want to do is go back. Sometimes escape is everything you needed to realize that going back would be the worst thing you could do. And sometimes escape plants you firmly in the middle of these two desires, and merely serves as escape with the false promise of perspective.
I know that I'm the only person in my world who I can depend on, but that to do so unequivocally would mean my destruction. Sometimes you need to depend on the unreliable, you need to trust those who don't deserve it. Sometimes you need to revel in the utter blackness of desolation - just to appreciate rising up again into the glare of the sunlight.
Sometimes you need a pilgrimage.
You can only enjoy the tapping and running of raindrops on a windowpane if you've been stuck outside in their downpour.
There are loves lost. There are loves found and then found to be false. And then there are loves that have merely been skirted. And these are the ones that stay with us in the dark. It is the promise of things not yet indulged, the temptation of love lost. Compare it to the sun shining behind a tree branch; it highlights that which is beautiful but also shadows that very object. Forever to remain an outline of shadow behind the light. Love is both shadow and light. But in this image neither rein.
It is a song that speaks to your soul on a train that shuttles past an endless montage of graffiti. It is the sun that teases to burn through the window at full force during this voyage but that is forever trapped behind the shadows of endless tunnels. It is the empty wine glass and the drip-drip-drip of the empty wine bottle at the end of the night. It is the mist that clings to the fire of a lamp post, creating a crescent of light onto a picture taken in the hopes of capturing the essence of a desolate street corner - trespass by a muse.
It is the opening of a new bottle even though you know it isn't necessary. It is reading a novel that is written in the very language of your soul, and reading it in a cafe in Old Town Prague while you sit beside someone who has no idea what the novel is about, someone who has no desire to listen to the subtleties enough to find out.
It is looking up at the unfamiliar star-scape and contemplating the thousands of miles of distance that create such a small disparity in the constellations. To be lost in a century when these differences meant more than simply boarding a plane and going home to the comfort of a familiar canopy of stars.
It is weighing the heavy against the light, desire against infatuation, life against living.
Sometimes it's better to drink alone than with someone who doesn't hear the notes to a song quite the same way you do. Sometimes all you need is a few candles burning into the London night. Sometimes you need to escape to realize that all you want to do is go back. Sometimes escape is everything you needed to realize that going back would be the worst thing you could do. And sometimes escape plants you firmly in the middle of these two desires, and merely serves as escape with the false promise of perspective.
I know that I'm the only person in my world who I can depend on, but that to do so unequivocally would mean my destruction. Sometimes you need to depend on the unreliable, you need to trust those who don't deserve it. Sometimes you need to revel in the utter blackness of desolation - just to appreciate rising up again into the glare of the sunlight.
Sometimes you need a pilgrimage.
You can only enjoy the tapping and running of raindrops on a windowpane if you've been stuck outside in their downpour.
There are loves lost. There are loves found and then found to be false. And then there are loves that have merely been skirted. And these are the ones that stay with us in the dark. It is the promise of things not yet indulged, the temptation of love lost. Compare it to the sun shining behind a tree branch; it highlights that which is beautiful but also shadows that very object. Forever to remain an outline of shadow behind the light. Love is both shadow and light. But in this image neither rein.
It is a song that speaks to your soul on a train that shuttles past an endless montage of graffiti. It is the sun that teases to burn through the window at full force during this voyage but that is forever trapped behind the shadows of endless tunnels. It is the empty wine glass and the drip-drip-drip of the empty wine bottle at the end of the night. It is the mist that clings to the fire of a lamp post, creating a crescent of light onto a picture taken in the hopes of capturing the essence of a desolate street corner - trespass by a muse.
It is the opening of a new bottle even though you know it isn't necessary. It is reading a novel that is written in the very language of your soul, and reading it in a cafe in Old Town Prague while you sit beside someone who has no idea what the novel is about, someone who has no desire to listen to the subtleties enough to find out.
It is looking up at the unfamiliar star-scape and contemplating the thousands of miles of distance that create such a small disparity in the constellations. To be lost in a century when these differences meant more than simply boarding a plane and going home to the comfort of a familiar canopy of stars.
It is weighing the heavy against the light, desire against infatuation, life against living.
posted by Black Sheep Girl at 3:08 PM
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