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maddles
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Name: Madeleine
Gender: Female
Interests: Music. Arguing. Escapism. Post Modernism. Pretentiousness.
Expertise: being pretentious . having a deeper connection to music than healthy. running away. word perversion.
Message: message me
Member Since:
12/3/2003
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| if i could have worked out how to be good, how to be intelligent, how to be worthy, then i would have.
i would have, for you.
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| (with a crabbed hand, a rushed hand, a stained hand)
i think you should stand up a little taller, make the most of your little frame. breathe a little deeper. i think you should grow your hair long and not care what they say. there's always been red hot rage in your bones, but now i think you should turn it into a cold ice cold hard fury. and you should hold on to it. there are people out there who should be on their knees begging, for what they've done to you. don't give any ground, even though i can feel you slipping. don't. don't you dare. i think you made it this far because you've got a reputation for being unflinching, you've got shards of flint in your spine, and i don't think that's a bad thing at all. i think you've done some damage, i think you've been damaged, but you need to stop licking your wounds and you need to stand up and stop this. i think you're older, but i see no reason why you should stop eating ice cream and braiding your hair and dancing. i don't think this is the end of you, so please. please get back up. that's what i think you should do.
although, when have you listened to what i think?
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| thinking you aren't worth fighting for is wildly different to knowing that you aren't. one has you gasping, one has you sobbing. and you remember potential, red hair and dangerous words. you remember how the world was in your hands until you threw it away for a chance to be good, to be loved, to be valued.
and you know that you never believed in regret or hindsight, but maybe maybe maybe another shot at all this, and you wouldn't mess it up so badly. maybe you'd be different.
probably not.
x
the words stopped. they stopped and they stuttered. a giant blockage that made me think maybe this wasn't what i wanted. a fat girl told me i was ugly. a french boy used his fingers in ways that should have been illegal, and whatever it was that i took in amsterdam, it damaged me. i wanted to be a child again, even though i knew i couldn't. i wore dresses, party dresses, coloured dresses and hoped that my small stature would have me mistaken for a three year old, and someone would hold me until the universe stopped hurting. when we were younger, everything was easier because we were deaf, blind and dumb. the innocence rolled off us in waves, in hurricanes, in kisses. now when i look outside myself, the world seems stupid, seems doomed and crazed and like nothing i do will make a difference. i never wanted this, i never asked but it is what it is and once i would have said i'd fight it tooth and nail. now though, i'm much more inclined to button my lip and say nothing.
because now i am a joke. i am a jester. a fool. people look through me with eyes of scorn. i have failed, spectacularly so, and they want to make sure i never forget it. recovery is not an option. i threw myself off my pedestal, caught my limbs in thorns and still refused to lower my head. there is no room for people like me. for heretics, for intellectuals, for academics, for dreamers. people laugh at me when i open my mouth and fanciful ideas come out. i am surrounded by the self conscious insecure awkward, and i am the easiest target available. because now i am i a joke, i am a jester. but they forget that i was always a fool.
x
it's becoming apparent that i don't like anyone i know, and that they don't like me. so i'm getting vicious, i'm getting nasty and i'm tearing myself a new hole in the world. i spend hours sobbing on my own, and no one ever comes to stroke my hair. so i'm getting vicious, i'm getting nasty. i'm getting single minded. i'm getting back up and i'm getting stronger. every wall i put up has been knocked down - by me. because no matter how bruised i get, or how sad, or how hopeless, i still want to win. more than anything.
x
you can find me here wearyourskirtlikeaflag and lastnightimissedallthefireworks more often now. drop by, leave me a note or a hug or some abuse.
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| in real life, you just don't get it, do you?
and i guess that's why i'm always going to be the villain.
(don't you miss the days when xanga wasn't so stupid)
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| do people ever ruin songs for you? maybe on purpose, maybe not. but maybe sometimes someone does something that means that every time you hear something you used to love, you get thrust back into something you were trying to run from. and it fills you with a dull rage, because it's like being robbed. so maybe you start to keep your cards close to your chest, because you're older now, you can't be so obviously selfish and petty about such a thing as music. but you make a definite effort to stay away from that piece of music for as long as possible, trying to forget about how maybe it glued you back together, one night in Angel Place after a long hard day at work, trying to forget about how maybe someone ripped it off you one hot day in some European country that you hated. you try not to talk about music anymore, in case people disagree with you that Editors give the best sonic hugs, that Idlewild are among the most intelligent poets in music, that The National will always be able to brighten the dull moments, that BRMC will always lash out at the darkness. you try not to say these things, because you know that they're considered wrong, but you don't quite know why. you try to like Joy Division and The Smiths, just like everyone else, but you had a drunken night with Mr Morrissey where he showed you all the jokes in his songs while Ian Curtis poured the whisky, so maybe you don't understand those bands the way you should.
and then it happens that you're lying on the floor, listening to music because trying to call your university and speak to areal person isn't working, and you realise that those memories aren't really you, aren't really the memories of someone you know. and you press the mental delete button, and for the first time in ages, listen to a song you used to own. and you realise that it wasn't ever about ownership. it was about feeling like maybe you'd found somewhere you fitted. and then it occurs to you that maybe you fit somewhere other than an album sleeve.
and then you fall asleep to the song on repeat. | | |
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