bechthros's Journal: Prayer and nice dreams

Please God
She owns me still... ...she owns me still.

How can it be?
Shouldn't six years count for something?
Why can't I at least start to get over this?
Why can't I accept that it's just too late?
Please let it mean something

Please let it mean nothing at all

Conversely
She already heard the mean ones
Shouldn't she hear the nice ones too?
Can the fact that I still dream
Still think about her every single fucking day
Can it mean nothing?
Nothing at all?

She lives there, in my mind, you know
Of course you know
Can't I please not dream?
Is this strength's reward, the payment for my newfound strength, my long lost wisdom?
A sentence to a prison of my greatest single regret
(I told her that once, you know... "I will go to my grave with this my biggest regret"...)
My single greatest loss
My single greatest love

When I made weakness my lover
(and I must admit I am tempted still)
My reward was simple
I never dreamed
Never
Having abandoned that lover
I choke on my dreams now
And wake screaming
Sobbing
From the dream where she tells me it's OK
From the dream where it all works out
From the dream of happy endings
My heart used to break again every time I woke up, you know
Now I'm almost used to it
Almost

Pull my skin off my bones before you let me dream again. Burn me in a car crash, bite me with an asp, take all my songs away from me. Tenfold. Oh God. Please.

I was all dressed in black
She was all dressed up in black
Oh God
She played Doolittle for me
I'd never heard it
Now every time somebody steals it I buy it
Almost as many times as 99%
She played me Doolittle
And I took her raving
And, for at least a little while
She liked it

Oh God
Be Spock for me now
Stroke my brow, whispering, "forget, forget, forget"

Torture me to death, God, before you let me dream again. Boiled in oil, choke me on foil, to the victor the spoils.

This blessing of the eternal muse
It sucks
I don't want it anymore
It's a blessing anyone would be lucky to receive
And so help me
I don't want the smallest piece of it
So help me

Kurt had one thing right:
I love you I love you I love you I love you I love you I love you I love you I love you I love you

I love you and I always will
There's nothing you can do
Whether you ever know it or not
Or accept it or not

I love you and I always will
I love you and I always will
I love you and I always will

------------

Dream 717 (by me)

        It begins in the coffeehouse. The warm, orange tones of her face are in stark contrast with the deep blue of the open, screenless window behind her. The whole scene looks like a music video, he thinks, which is appropriate because she's singing to him. With her braces that she's much too old for (she's in her mid-20's now, a "late bloomer" she always joked) showing, she's singing him a song of finding a love that's true, a song of promising yourself, a song of fuck what's normal and fuck expectations and fuck society. The first time she sings it he's too scared to move, can't possibly believe that this is real. She sees this, and after the song is finished, she keeps her eyes dead set on him and starts over with the same song. She starts over because she means it. She means it. He lets his head come down to rest on the coffeehouse table and looks up at her, smiling a smile of childlike innocence that's maybe not so innocent after all. She had been leaning in towards him during the first instantiation of her song. He having reciprocated, she leans back, momentarily taken aback at the change, then leans in again to continue the gentle seduction by proximity. He is holdilng his hands up, arms bent straight up at the elbows in front of his face. Her face weaves perilously close to them and he hopes his hands don't smell like he's been scratching his balls too much. The song and the seduction combine to affect him greatly. At one point he opens his eyes and the girl and the coffeehouse have been replaced by beautiful blue sky, complete with birds and clouds. His body is still in the chair, his nose still smells the coffee and his ears still hear the song, but he has been transported. He weeps with joy. She looks down in the coffeehouse, sees this man she loves wracked with sobs, eyes closed, and smiles.

        It ends in a tenement hallway. There are newspapers and assorted debris on the floor, which appears to be made of sheetrock where the filthy grey carpet it pulled back from corners. She is bicycling slowly down the hallway as we walks beside her. They are both taking their time because they both know this is the end. He is delivering her here to her new lover, the famous rock star. Their affair is published in trade mags.

        "Hey," she says at some point, "at least we made it six months." They both nod in agreement that that's pretty cool. In a final gesture of his futile love, he puts his arm around her waist. Which you wouldn't think would work with somebody riding on a bicycle, but it somehow, strangely, does. They reach the apartment and she dismounts from the bicycle. The door is open, though the room inside is empty of people, and they can see that the floor within drops at least three feet from the floor in the hallway, without any visible stairs or means of ascension, like an elevator stuck between floors. They pause silently for a long time. Her hair is pulled back into a sleek ponytail. He turns her head to the side and studies her face. For a moment it seems to him as though her face is painted white with a clownish base, and a brief paragraph is written on her cheek. It is the story of their brief, strong love, from the extended psychic tendrils of connection through first lust at her parents' house down to the end, the disillusionment that he could be the nicest guy in the world and still not be able to hold her attention. He can never hold their attention. He reads this paragraph through once, twice, three times and she lets him have his closure. She is unsure that she is doing the right thing, but she would be more unsure were she to stay with him, and so she has resigned herself to accepting the more exciting of her two uncertainties. They kiss gently, one last time.

And then the dream is over.

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"Nice Dream" (by radiohead)

They love me like I was a brother
They protect me, listen to me
They dug me my very own garden
Gave me sunshine, made me happy

Nice dream, nice dream, nice dream

I call up my friend, the good angel
But she's out with her ansaphone
She says she would love to come help but
The sea would electrocute us all

Nice dream
Nice dream
Nice dream
Nice dream
Nice dream
Nice dream
Nice dream

If you think that you're strong enough
If you think you belong enough
If you think that you're strong enough
If you think you belong enough

Nice dream
Nice dream
Nice dream
Nice dream