#steptothelight

not drunk at all very sober |:

[The more I think, the less I see When I’m able to walk, I’m queen of my world I let it rain on my skin I don’t let myself down, don’t let myself down. I wanna be one with you, wanna be one with you].

The words are scribbled in bleary letters on your notebook, and you can’t really read them unless you squint your eyes so much it huts — but it doesn’t matter, since you know them by heart now. It’s like they’re written everywhere, painted in neon lights over the dirty surface of the city, so bright you can’t ignore them — not like you do with anything else. They’ve come to you in a blur, just nights ago, inspired by the empty bottle of Jack’s you had been nursing as devotedly as a mother,  and you weren’t even thinking about him, while you wrote the same sentence over and over, obsessively. It was only the morning after that you realized it was about him, and even then you decided to ignore the truth because it was somewhat easier than accepting you actually cared about somebody other than yourself. And now you’re there, in the corner of a filthy pub, just like every other night — yet tonight you’re scared, and it shows in your voice, on the way your fingers hesitate upon the keys, on the beer you’ve barely touched, and on the sigh that leaves your mouth before that pleading, chanting chorus.

[All I want is to rock your soul, all I want is to rock your soul].

There’s a reason why you haven’t given in to iPods and mp3 players and all that shit, and that’s because, despite everything, you’re actually the sentimental type and you’re too fond of CDs to just give them up. You like to know how many tracks there are, you like to know what’s coming next. You like to be in control. You’re your own CD, and know exactly how many tracks are left on your discography. Or at least, you thought you knew — because lately you’ve been stuck on the same track, over and over again, a broken record that won’t ever start again. And you have no idea how to fix it, how to gain back control — all you can do is pray it will end at some point. One way, or the other. Or maybe you could play along, learn the foreign language of his music, sing to him just like you’re singing to yourself, and maybe you wouldn’t sound so frightened. Maybe you could even smile,  for once.

[I think that I have to give you something more than words is that something? So I show you my dreams to make ‘em your dreams won’t you just be? I’m what you see].

Morgan Andersen never cries. That’s a fact everybody’s aware of. But very few people know that you actually do cry, a lot, and your tears are gentle notes like those that keep flowing out of your fingers, sharp as bullets and light as snowflakes, and somehow you can’t stop — once again, you’ve lost control. The storm’s taking over and you’re adrift — you could really use an anchor right now, but not just any anchor. Your anchor’s got brown eyes and a scruff that tickles you when he’s near, an irish accent and a heavy heart you wish you could carry on your own — but what if you drown?