"Exitlude" by The Killers

Song: "Exitlude" by The Killers

Feeling: Welcome, acceptance, accepted, warmth

Description: Since I've heard it I've always liked the song "Exitlude" by the amazing band The Killers. I think the song has a war mood to it, the way they sing it, the rhythm, the way the chorus is sung and just in general the lyrics give off an aura of 'welcome' and 'warmth' which is what I wanted to write about in the story. Just what it feels like to be a part of something, welcome and accepted into something. So I tried to do that. :) 

Story: 

            I could still feel their good byes in the air. Their warm hugs still lingered on my body, their last words, if you listened hard enough, could still be heard echoing in the stars.

            “Take care out there Rory, not every one is as nice as us.” They had told me. They had been joking, of course but I knew there was some truth in those words. I could travel the world, search every corner of the planet and I don’t think I would have found people as nice as them, people that could make me feel accepted, welcome. People that could, if only for a moment, make me forget all that weighed down on me. All that made me tire and regret. People that could wash it all away with some bad joke. They were those people.

            And I was going to miss them. The guy with the tussled brown hair and flannel shirts who always had a bad joke to tell, the girl with the colored striped in her hair that burned food in the microwave, the guy with the leather jacket and serious face, the girl with the tattoo of a bird on her wrist. I would miss them. The guy with the pale blonde hair and confused expression, the one that looked at the ground constantly hoping to find the words he couldn’t say written on the pavement was going to miss them. I was going to miss them because in the short time I was with them I didn’t have to look for words, they were right there, I didn’t have to fill in the awkward gaps of silence because there were none, I didn’t have to live with the faults that threatened me down, because with them I forgot them. With them I didn’t have to hide them. I didn’t have to cover up the fact that I am not very good at talking, or the fact that I don’t have much social grace either. With them those things didn’t matter. They took me and the tag-along package that were my flaws, and they didn’t care.

            They showed me themselves, showed me their dreams and talked about their futures as if they were along head off but they were ready to dive straight into them as if they came riding on the brink of tomorrow. They fished out my own dreams out of me. They showed me themselves. Their favorite color, their favorite band, we argued over music taste, debated on which was the best movie. They listened to the small stuff like the fact that my favorite color is blue, not the pale blue, but the deep rich one that covers the night sky, the startling one that swims in the depths of the ocean. They cared. And I care about them. I now know that Zachary’s favorite book is the Calving and Hobbes collection because he grew up reading the strips on the Sunday newspaper. And that Mariah’s favorite movie is Up, from Disney Pixar because she loves the talking dog. And that Issac’s favorite band is Led Zepplin because he used to listen to them with his Father. I know that Delilah likes antique cameras and rainy city photographs. I know this because in the short time I was with them, I cared, and they cared about all the little tuff that made us ourselves.

            In the short time I knew them I felt welcome, I felt accepted. I felt that every time I opened my mouth to speak I didn’t have to shout my lungs out to have them listen, they did so without me shouting. I felt that they wanted me with them, I wasn’t the burden they had to be carrying around. For that short piece of time I felt as if I was a part of something, I wasn’t an extra piece, I felt accepted. I felt welcome.

            Their last good bye’s were said and they were echoed by the stars and moon:

            “We hope you enjoyed your stay,

            It’s good to have you with us,

            Even if it’s just for a day,

            We hope you enjoyed your stay,

            Outside the sun is shining,

            Seems like heaven ain’t far away.”

            

"Crystal Ball" by Keane

Song: "Crystal Ball" by Keane

Felling: Dream-like, creative

Description: I've always liked Keane songs because they ahve a certain uniqueness about them especially this one , which to em sounds as if it comes form a dream or some sort of fantasy which, I guess, is also why I chose it for this story. The song is "Crystal Ball" by Keane. I don;t really know what the band was trying to say with it, but to me it sounds creative and as if it comes from the depths of their imagaination. Also I think it sort of is trying to describe the feeling of wanting to find magic and fantasy in the world. The feeling is creative, or dream-like. I don't think I did a marvelous job of portraying those, but oh well. :)

Story:

            She liked to read books.

            She devoured them whole, taking them down from their shelves and gobbling up their words, her eyes breathing in the letters and her fingers flying rapidly turning the delicate paper.

            Books were her form of escape, her form of treading off into dreamlike worlds. Her way of shedding off the real world that dragged her down and sprinting off into one of dreams and possibilities.

            She especially liked fantasy ones. The ones that would revolve around magic, around things she knew could not exist, but inside the pages they brought life and became as real as the air she breathed. These were the books that made her feel dream-like, the ones that would have her looking at the world a little harder, trying to find a little bit of magic in it, thinking that maybe if she looked hard enough, if she concentrated enough, she would see it.

            She would see it because she lived on the edges of reality, dancing on the thin line of reality and dreams. Tipping over occasionally, loosing her balance and drowning in the world of fantasies. She would fall into a world of dreams, she would fall into a world where music could be held. A world where colors could be invented, a world where the wind sang the sweetest of melodies which the stars and moon would echo. A place in which the world would hold it’s breath because of how radiant it was. A place where only for a moment the words which she read would amplify to form walls, and cities, rivers that run through grassy fields and fluffy white clouds would melt into sweet rain. A world that felt dream-like, a world in which she the stranger, the guest that would fall in love with the place. The intruder.

            When ever she read she would fly over to that world, to the small piece of land owned and kept by her imagination and she would sit and watch into it. Spy in on its characters, letting its warmth seep into her, its music enlight her, letting the words take her up high beyond the reach of birds, close enough to touch the stars. Making her feel magical as she swam in the seas of creativity and ink, flew in the skies of imagination and touched the clouds of words. Making her feel dream-like.

"Human" by Civil Twilight

Song: "Human" by Civil Twilight

Feeling: Forgiven, loved,

Description: The song is "Human" by the great band Civil Twilight. I always think the song has a nice tone to it, it's sort of gentle and sweet and at the same time it's a bit bittersweet. Also I think it's talking about how the flaws in your nature make you human. How the fact that you make mistakes and mess things up is part of being human, which I guess sort of fits the story, which is basically about a guy who left home and then regrets it and is going back. In other words it's about him feeling forgiven by the people that never really gave up on him. So, there you go. :)

Story: 

            I stand, out of place, twirling my thumbs under the golden beam of the porch light. My heart beats steadily and even though I try to hide this from myself I can feel the pulse of nervousness in my chest. It’s been there for a long time. Appearing every time I think of this place, of this door with the cracked wooden paint, the smooth doorknob and the faulty lock that opens if you push hard enough. At this moment I want nothing more then to retreat into the darkness, I want nothing more then to be invisible so that when they open the door they don’t see me. So that they don’t have to see what I’ve become, so they don’t have to know because if they did I don’t know what I would do

            But my wishes have a knack for not coming true and the door opens. She is there, standing, her caramel brown hair tied up in a ponytail, still wearing a faded band t-shirt, still wearing worn in jeans and that expression on her face, just like the last time I saw her. But this time her gentle face melts off and shock comes into her features. “Charlie.” She says looking at me. I nod hoping she’ll recognize the stranger with tussled dark hair, tired eyes and a jacket that seems to fall all too heavily on his shoulders. Hoping she’ll recognize me.

“Hey, Jo,” I say huskily. Her violet eyes look me over quickly and I know she does because she throws her arms around me. Stiffly I hug her back. I don’t deserve her hug, I don’t deserve her joy at seeing me, not after what I’ve done, but I take it anyways because sometimes it feels good to have something you’re not allowed. Some times it’s what you need. “You should come inside.” She says releasing me. I nod again. No words seem to be able to come out of my mouth, no ‘hellos’ or ‘glad to see you’, and I know it’s only going to get harder to speak once I am inside.

            It does. The place is just as I remember. The smell of coffee dances in the air, quiet music whispers through the wooden walls which are bathed in warm light. Leo the cat is curled up in an armchair, he looks up as he sees me, his large eyes scanning me with a serious look. “Say hello, Leo” Jo says, Leo only looks displeased, he never really liked me and his name is not Leo, it’s Leonardo, he likes to make that very clear. It makes him look classier.

We move along through the hall, books rise up in towers around us. Pictures of fields hang on the wall. At this point you have to watch your step to make sure you don’t step on anything, the floor is littered with books which have fallen off their place, rolled up maps, odd artifacts and a large ball of black fur that is cannoning towards us at  top speed. Or it’s speeding towards me more specifically.

Mika, the dog pounces on my chest making me stumble backwards as she laps at my face. Her eyes are wild with joy and her tail wags in hysterics. I always liked her and she’s always liked me. She’s a large black dog with kind brown eyes and an energy that could power the world. Her real name is Duchess Mika, Jo and I named her when we were younger, but she isn’t picky about what we call her, and that’s the great thing about her, she’ll come, if she knows you’re calling her, she’ll come.

“Whose there? Jo?” A mans voice comes from down the hall. His silhouette makes shadows run down the walls and the light illuminates his face. A brown beard and kind eyes behind horned glasses. He wears a flannel shirt, as always, and jeans, just as I saw him last time. “…Charlie, is that you?” He asks. His voice sounds shattered, and I can hear the hope in it. The hope that I’ll answer and be the Charlie he remembers. The little boy that used to fall asleep on the couch and read Calvin and Hobbes on the Sunday newspaper. I’m not. I’m sorry, but I’m not.

But I answer. “Yeah, it’s me.” I say. My voice is too quiet but it reaches him and his lips part in a smile. A smile I don’t deserve, but again, I take it. I take it without a second thought. I take his embrace too, he squeezes the air out of me and pats me hard on the back as always. “Charlie, my boy,” He murmurs. “Where have you been?” He asks me. His eyes are smiling and I really don’t want to answer that question although I have a feeling he already knows. He must. I wrote it down in the note I left when I decided to leave.

“Places.” I answer. I’ve been up and down, and left to right but the only place I wanted to be is here. He nods and smiles. Jo is behind him, also smiling. Leo is in her arms.

“John! What is taking you so long?! I need you’re help in the kitchen, John!” Rosemary bobbles out into the hall. “Good heavens John, what in the world are you…” her voice trails off as her eyes fall on me. Her hair is escaping its tight bun at the back of her head and she is dressed in her flower print dress. Her cheeks are round and red, just as I remember and her lungs are just as strong as they used to be. “Charlie….” She says quietly. I nod, walking towards her. “Oh Charlie!” She says. She is speeding towards me, her arms outstretched and her face glowing and I find myself falling into her hug. It’s tight. A mother’s hug. She’s not my mother, but she might as well be, she practically raised me. And John could be called my father, and Jo my sister.

“Hello Rosemary.” I say as she lets go. Her eyes are sparkling with tears and I can feel my own grow hot.

“Oh, Charlie, I missed you my dear.” She says. Then, true to her rituals, she begins to berate me. “You’re too thin, I suspect you haven’t been eating well, I’ll cook something up. No, don’t disagree with me. Jo, get him some warm coffee to drink. I said don’t disagree with me.” She begins as she bustles off into the kitchen. Jo grins at me and Mika swivels through us.

“Come on, we best go sit.” She tells me. John leads the way into the living room. It’s alight with small lamps and the sounds of a cackling fire, which sits humbly burning in the fireplace. It’s just as I remember. Leo finds himself a comfy spot and Mika lies down near me, her tail wagging.

Just as they say, I would like to be as good as a dog thinks I am. I would like to be as good as they all think I am. But I can feel the shame burn up inside me. I can feel the hurt that I caused, and I know I’m not.

“Here you go, Charlie. You better eat all that up.” Rosemary says as she hands me a plate of cookies, I can tell they’re fresh and warm. She places a cup of milk beside me and for a while that’s all the sound there is. Me eating the cookies, Mika’s tail wagging, Leo purring and the constant beat of love that seems to run through this room. Something I missed. Something I took for granted.

“So, Charlie, five months?” John asks. Yes. Five months since I left. Five months I’ve regretted. Five months since I’ve wanted to come back. Five months since I hurt them. Five months since I stepped in this room, eaten these cookies, petted Mika and saw them. Five months. Five months of guilt. Five months.

“Yes…” I answer. “I’m sorry,” I say quietly. “I’m so sorry.” I hope they hear the plead in my voice. I hope they hear the guilt. I hope they understand. I’m asking the impossible, but if there is some one who can do it, it is them.

And they do. Rosemary only smiles at me, Jo rolls her eyes and grins and John shakes his head gently grinning as he does. “So are you here to stay?” He asks me.

It’s a question but it’s also a fact. It’s their way of saying that I am welcome here. That here I am Charlie. In here I still read Calvin and Hobbes and play with Mika. In here I am not the cold person I am to the world. In here there is no guilt on my shoulders. In here I am Charlie. Plain and simple. Charlie. In here I am just Charlie.

            So I answer. “I think so.” I say. “I think I am.” And in that room with a happy dog and a picky cat, the room with the humble fire and the girl who wears band t-shirts, the room with the man with the kind eyes and the woman with the loud and caring voice, in that room I felt safe. I felt forgiven. I felt loved.

“It’s only love, it’s only pain,

              It’s only fear that runs through my  veins,

              It’s all the things I can’t explain

              That make us human.”

"Colorblind" by Counting Crows

Song: "Colorblind" by Counting Crows

Feeling: Sadness

Description: The song is "Colorblind" by the band Counting Crows. I've always thought the song had a sad mood to it. Especially when it says "I am colorblind," I think it means that you can't see any joy in the world, and I guess that's what sadness feels like sometimes. 

        The story is about a man whose son went to war and sends letters to him. I got the idea form a prompt a friend told me about, (She's awesome). Basically the prompt was to write a story about a man who had lost his son but you could not mention the son or his death. I hope I did an okay job with it. :) 

Story:

The letters came every two weeks.

            They were tucked into cold envelopes which were decorated with pompous stamps advertising their glory and pride.

            The letters were delivered to his door every other Thursday. Mail came every day every day but he barely bothered to go and check it, but letter Thursdays were special. Those were the days where the man would even wait for his mail. Silent in his arm chair, a cup of tea beside him and his eyes distant, his mind being called back by the slightest of noise, by the slightest indication that his mail had been delivered.

            Retrieving the letters was also a tradition. He wouldn’t let himself be too rushed, but he would walk himself slowly to the front door and open it up to the small pile of letters that would look up at him. He would pick them all up but only bother to read one. The others he would discard to the coffee table, while the special one he would carry it gingerly in his hands, as if afraid the paper might shatter under his touch. Although the paper was far from delicate. It was tough and thick, a faint yellowish tint to it and hard crisp corners, but to the man the letter written inside was as precious as the morning sun, and he handled precious things very seriously.

            The first few times he received the letters he would open them up right away, right on the spot, not even bothering to use a knife to cut away the envelopes seal but ripping it apart with his hands until his fingers could finally get a hold of the paper tucked inside it. The habit faded away. This didn’t mean he cared less about the letters, nor did it mean that he was less eager, if possible, his eagerness for the letters grew. But now he knew how to treasure it. He would force himself to really appreciate them. To fully take them in before opening them carefully and reading over them, taking them in word by word.

            He would never throw away the letters. They were not to be treated as regular mail. Instead they were placed back into their envelopes and tucked into a wooden cupboard to be treasured and well kept.

            On the same day in which he received the letter, he would get himself to work on writing one. His penmanship had always been meticulous, but when writing the words upon the letter his hand didn’t seem to move fast enough for his mind and soul who were spilling themselves onto the paper and his words would slant a bit. His letters would connect, the ‘h’s had long tails that dwarfed into the ‘e’s. His ‘s’ was a scribble and his ‘n’ would always end up looking a little like an ‘r’. But his penmanship didn’t matter to him. He only cared about his words which he made sure were just right before he would tuck his own letter into an envelope and decorate this one with stamps. He used bright colorful ones because maybe that would help conserve a little of the happiness. He didn’t know if the stamps helped, but they certainly didn’t hurt either.

            Sending the letters was a ritual in itself. He would walk to the post office his hat placed high on his head and a smile on his face. He would hand it to the man working the counter who would nod and place it into a slot. He would watch it go, his eyes wanting to follow it to it’s destination. His eyes wanting to see it’s destination, but that wasn’t possible, not right now.

            The first time the letter didn’t arrive on time it was a rainy September evening. He was in his arm chair, as he usually was on this particular day of the week, at this particular time. He heard the letters be delivered and he walked himself over to the door and opened it, but he didn’t find the letter he was expecting. Frowning he had gone back inside, thinking the whole while that it must have gotten lost in the mail. It must have. It must have

            But it didn’t come the next day, nor the day after that. Neither did it come two weeks later. The letters did not come. He knew it wasn’t the mailing system, but he didn’t want to face the truth either. He didn’t want to believe it, but once he saw the men outside his front door in their pressed uniforms and hard faces, he was forced to face it.

            They spoke in cold words. Their sentences held no real meaning, they held no truth, they were just a hard pressed routine, some thing they must do on automatic.

            “We’re sorry, sir.” They said as they walked away leaving him with another envelope which he refused to open. He knew it’s contents already, a signed letter printed in fancy type and a metal chain with a metal placard on which a name was printed. He didn’t want to see it.

            After that the world seemed to slow down. His home seemed to become a bit too large for him and his neighbors brought him flowers which he left to whither. The letters which he had kept cooped up in the wooden cupboard in fear of this day, saw the light again. But no knew letters came. No letters wrapped up in stiff cold envelopes and bandaged up with dark stamps ever came and worst of all, no letters ever left.

            And every two weeks on Thursdays he would sit on his arm chair a cup of cold tea, for he never bothered drinking it, beside him in hopes that somehow a letter would come although he knew they never would, and they never did.

"Asleep" by The Smiths

Song: Asleep by The Smiths

Feeling: Anxiety, panic

Description: I am not entirely happy with how this entry turned out either, but I'm just going to leave it as it is. The song is "Asleep" by The Smiths. I think it's a nice song, a bit sad. As with most songs I am not sure what the writer wanted to say with them, but to me the song is about wanting to leave this world because you're tired of it, or you're going through a lot. Which is why when it says "Sing me to sleep, sing me to sleep, don't try to wake me in the morning because I will be gone, deep in the cell of my heart I've wanted this all along." In the song I think they use "sleep" as a metaphor leaving what ever place you are in which is why it also says "don't try to wake me in the morning, because I will be gone."and then "Don't feel bad for me, deep in the cell of my heart I've wanted this all along." So I think it has a sad meaning, but that's not the one I wanted to portray in the small story. Along with the sad meaning the song has, it also has a soothing effect to it. The piano and the gentle way it is sung, it makes you want to fall asleep. So I guess I am trying to show a little of both. And again I could be wrong on the song's meaning, but thats what I think it's trying to say. 

         The feeling is anxiety or panic, although I don't think I did a very good job of showing it. But basically it's about a guy who gets nightmares and is panicked after them. 

Story:

            The night air was heavy in his room. It weighed down on his panting lungs and made his sweat run cold. He twitched between his blankets, trapped in the world of his nightmares until in a mere instant his eyes would snap open, his arms would snap back and he would be up. Sweat making his sheets stick to him, hair tussled, heart drumming, lungs screaming and his eyes blaring as the tried to make sense of the dark.

            Sighing he sat up completely. Tearing the blankets from his body he shakily got up, taking in cold gulps of air. His eyes were still wide but now they were used to the dark that rained down on him. His hand searched for the light switch and with a click the room was ablaze with a dim golden glow. Blinking he ran his hands through his hair, trying to calm down his mind which was still running in circles, still panicked form its most recent nightmare.

            He had them often. Every night or so. He would lay his head down to rest only to be greeted by the dark grasp of his dreams, only to be pulled down by the gravity of panic and anxiety. Insomnia had come soon afterwards. His mind never seemed to go back to it’s calm state after a nightmare, it would spend hours drumming inside, his thoughts racing and knotting themselves up in a mess until dawn would creep in and he would just give up on counting sheep and hope that coffee might make up for the lack of rest that night.

            It never did. His eyes felt tired and burned all day long, his mind slurred and his body seemed to be pressed down. But the moment he put his head down to rest was the moment his nightmares would come, the moment his worst fears would bloom inside his thoughts and slowly drown everything out.

            Sleeping pills didn’t work. Neither did dream catchers and he was left to deal with the nightmares on his own. They weren’t really nightmares. If they did they would just exist in the sleeping world, but his dream monsters came to life in the day too. They would clog his tired mind and blur his sleepy eyes until he would almost believe that they were real.

            He ran his hands through his hair again, making it stand on end. On most nights, after a dream, he would lie down again and try to regulate his breathing and calm down his mind. He almost never did but tonight was different. Tonight he didn’t even try. Tonight he was going to do something else.

            Shakily his fingers fumbled with the white plastic covered wire, trying to get the knotted earphones undone. He plugged them into his small music player, all the while his mind shaking in fits while he remembered the monsters from his nightmare.

            The small music player came to life with a click of a button and his eyes searched mindlessly for what he wanted. He already knew, and he needed no thoughts to command his movements right now.

            Music. That’s what he wanted. That was his last hope, maybe the notes or the voices would help him. Maybe they would chase away the nightmares. Laying back he clicked the light off, evolving him in darkness again. A small tune blasted into his mind as he closed his eyes and repeating his nightly ritual he breathed in and out, soothing his heart as it banged against his rib cage.

            His mind slowed down as it listened to the lyrics and slowly sleep fell on him like a blanket, drenching his body in warmth as The Smiths sang him to sleep.

              “Sing me to sleep, sing me to sleep,

                I’m tired and I want to go to bed.

               Sing me to sleep, Sing me to sleep, 

               There is another world, 

               There is a better world, 

               There must be..." 

"Wake Me Up When September Ends" by Green Day

Song: "Wake Me Up When September Ends" by Green Day

Feeling: Tired

Description: So this entry is about the feeling of "tired" or "tiredness' (how ever you may say it). The song, "Wake Me Up When September Ends" is by the awesome and amazing band, Green Day. Again I am not sure what the band wanted to say with this song, but from what I've heard and the opinion of others I think it's about the feeling wanting to wake up when all the bad stuff is over. Again I can be wrong, but that's what I think and that's what the story is about. A guy who is tired of his problems and just wants to "wake up when they're all over" 

Well on another topic I really love the song, which is one of my favorites by this band, and the band, which is one of my favorite bands. Just wanted to say that, and the fact that Green Day is awesome. :) 

Story: 

The sun was drowning in the horizon, its last rays of light melting off the shadows as the sky began to turn a dark shade of indigo. 

            I stalked through the cold city streets, my breath coming out in puffs from my mouth. I felt tired.  The whole city seemed tired. The traffic around me seemed slow and slurred, the cars forcing their exhausted tanks to keep on going for one more meter as their sleep dazed drivers sipped coffee which had long lost effect on them. The buildings seemed to slouch, as if they no longer could take their concrete weight, and the streets seemed to drone on and on. If there even is a city that never sleeps, this one is not it. 

            I am tired of the stress, of the pain, and the huge burden that seems to have chosen my shoulders to plop itself on. I’m tired of having to go through another day pretending, of having to smile even though I don’t want to, I’m tired of sleepless nights spent drowning in guilt and remorse. I’m tired of the lying and facing the world. I want to lie down somewhere and just go to sleep. Even the sidewalk underneath me looks soft right now.

            The street lights are beginning to ingnite themselves and even those seem a little dim. Sighing I stare glumilly down at the sidewalk. 

            “Hey, Kid!” A mans voice snaps me out of my drone. I look up to see Marv. He’s wlaking towards me in quick strides which land heavily and loudly on the pavement. His voice is booming, and up close you can see his eyes are awake and dancing. Leave it to him to have energies right now. But then again Marv is never tired. At least I’ve never seen him tired. He’s always awake strumming at his guitar until his fingers bleed, his eyes on the notes.

            Marv is my guitar teacher. He’s been so since I was 10. He likes Nirvana and The Smiths. He wears graphic t-shirts with pictures of bands on them under a leather jacket. And recently he’s also been the person on whom I lean on. The person on whom I tend to be taking out all my stress on, and the person who doesn’t snap back at me when I do. He doesn't get annoyed as most people do, and I know I would be very annoyed if some 15 year old boy ranted at me about his life. No, he just sits there patiently and when I’m done he hands me my guitar and orders me to sit down and play a song again because no matter in what mood you’re in you have to practice and get the notes right. That’s his philosophy. The guy is around 50, with graying brown hair that always looks a little tussled and grey eyes that never seem to look tired. Despite the fact that he stayed up all night writing out a song or playing Mozart on a guitar. 

            He has caught up to me now. I look down. I didn’t go to lessons today. He’s probably going to be mad about that. If Marv is one thing, he’s a tough guy. He can berate me for an hour for hitting one wrong chord. But I felt tired.

            “Kid,” He says my name. Well that’s not my name. My name is actually Alexander, but he has completely ignored that and given me the nickname ‘kid’. So in his presence I am ‘kid’, nothing else.

            “Oh hey Marv,” I say. He studies me over his grey eyes breaking me down.

            “Hey, kid” He says back. “Just wanted to check up on you, make sure you were alright, you didn’t come today.” He says it more as a fact but I can tell there is some disappointment in there.

            “I know,” I respond. He gives me a look, arching his eye brows and I can almost hear a snide comment coming. But he says nothing. He only looks at me, expecting another answer. Expecting the reason as to why this cold September day at 4 o’cklock I failed to show up for guitar lessons. An answer as to why I probably kept him waiting with the music sheets out and metronome ticking and the coffee steaming. So I do. I tell him the truth. “I was tired.” I say.

            He looks me over again and I know he understands. I know he gets what I mean by ‘tired’, because in his 50 or more years of wisdom Marv has seen tired to the extremes. He’s seen the tired that can’t be washed down by another cup of coffee, or a cold splash of water. The tired that stays imprinted in your mind. The tired that some people have hanging like a ghost over their shoulders, always there but never seen. And he’s probably seen my kind of tired which is why he asks: “So what are you going to do now, kid?”

            The question is simple enough. It’s the answer that’s complex and it’s my mind that doesn’t want to work through it just yet.

            Fact is I don’t really know. I don’t know what I want to do. I don’t really want to do anything, not right now, not when this rain is falling down, drenching me down, not when I can barely keep my head straight, not when all I want is some warm safe place ot curl up in and block out the world. So that’s what I tell him.

            “I don’t know Marv,” I say. The last traces of daylight have tucked themselves in for the night and I find myself sighing. A sigh that comes out of my lungs and heart a sigh that wants to take my troubled mind with it. A sigh that says nothing more but the very words coming from my lips this instant, “Just... Wake me up when September ends.”1

1: That's a quote from the song which is why it is in italics. 

"Only the Young" by Brandon Flowers

Song: "Only the Young" by: Brandon Flowers

Feeling: Hopeful

Description: Like the last entry I am not very happy about this one either, but again, oh well. Basically this one is supposedly about "hope" and the feeling of "hopefulness" but I don;t think I did a very good job in writing about that.
The song is by Brandon Flowers the lead singer of the band The Killers, one of my favorite bands. The song's name is "Only the Young". Like with most songs I don't know what Brandon Flowers wants to say exactly with his song, but I do know I feel pretty hopeful when I listen to it. So whether he's trying to transmit that or not, the story is about that.
Oh and the story, which I am not 100% pleased with how it turned out, is basically about a girl whose been through a lot and then this friend of hers talks to her  and they listen to a song and magically everything is okay and she is full of hope, because obviously that is how the real world works. >:( But anyways, enjoy. :)

Story:

            The rain came down hard against the window, the drops pattering on relentlessly as the sky cracked with lighting and rumbled with thunder.

            The weather looks annoyed.

            “I thought I’d find you here.” His voice snaps me to reality. Now I am annoyed. I didn’t exactly want to be found.  The reason I came up here in the middle of a thunderstorm in the first place.

            “Couldn’t you have thought wrong for once?” I snap bitterly. He chuckles and I hate him for it. Leave it to him to be cheerful right now.

            “I’m glad to see you too.” He responds as he sits beside me, his blonde hair is illuminated by a flash of lightning. It strikes in the reflection of his glasses and his eye blink I surprise as thunder rumbles close by. He fumbles with his iPod. I know he’s going to out on some Killers music, they’re his favorite band. And true to my statement he does. “Dustland Fairytale” begins to play and he hums happily to it. “So, remind me again why are we here?” He asks.

            I know the answer. At least I know the answer as to why I am here right now.. I am here because I can’t be anywhere else. Or to be more exact, I don’t want to be anywhere else. This is my little alcove from the world, my little shelter from all that threatens to drag me down. As to why he’s here, I don’t know.

            To my silence he asks another question. “Are you going to tell me what happened this time?” He asks me. It’s his attempt at getting me to talk. He should know me by now, I don’t exactly “talk” that easily.

            “How about… No.” I answer back, an edge to my voice. He sighs and chuckles again.

            “Well are you at least going to tell me what’s wrong?” He tries again. His blue eyes seem tired and I wonder if it’s because of me. It probably is. I am very good at making people tired, or annoyed or just plain angry. Actually I consider it a natural gift to mess things up. And I’ve gotten very good at it lately.

            But fact is I don’t want to mess him up. I don’t want him to get hurt because of me, not like the others have. He doesn’t deserve to be here, alone, with me, a 15 year old girl who snaps at every thing he says. He should be out there with people, he should be happy and laughing with his friends. Not cooped up trying to get me to say words I don’t even want to think of.

            But I have to answer his question because if he’s here with me then he at least deserves an answer, and I want to answer, to tell him. But I can’t. I’m scared. I hate to say it but I am downright terrified of having to say those words to him. Of having to tell him how guilty I feel.

I messed up. I messed up so badly and now I feel so guilty. I got so many people hurt just because I was stupid. I know what if I tell him he’ll say the same thing every one has. “It wasn’t your fault. It wasn’t your fault.”  And I’ll probably want to scream because it was my fault. Don’t they get it? I could have stopped everything from happening. But, no I had to let him go didn’t I? He was little and scared and I had to let him go. I can feel hot tears pushing at my eyelids.

Oh gosh, not now. I am not going to cry now.

            “I messed up” I say quietly. I don’t know how those words even made it out fo my mouth but my voice cracks under their weight as they stumble out of me. I look at him, at his caring blue eyes. They’ve never been a cold blue, they’ve always been a bright and warm one, and they’ve never looked so out of place in this dark world. “I messed up” I tell him.

            I hope he understands what I am trying to say with those two words. I hope he doesn’t as for more. Because then, I swear, I am going to loose it.

            He doesn’t. He doesn’t do anything he just smiles a sad little grin and looks at me. His eyes are still. “Hey, what ever happened, whose ever fault it was, you have to let it go. You have to move on.” He tells me.

            “How?” I demand. “How can you just tell me to do that, I can’t just let it go.” He shakes his head.

            The Killers is still playing. “Look back in silence, the cradle of your whole life, there in the distance loosing it’s greatest pride, Nothing is easy, nothing is sacred, why?”

            “You can,” He tells me. His eyes are sincere, and then I realize something else. He is being sincere. He’s not just spitting out his words to make me feel better. He’s not giving them to me so that I can comfort myself with them. No. He means them. He believes them, and for a moment I also do. For a moment the guilt that has been lying on my shoulders falls off and my breath doesn’t feel heavy anymore. My thoughts don’t feel pressed down because for the first time in a long time they’re not being clouded and slurred with the memories, nor the guilt, no, they’re free.

            “And there were people there, lovely as you’d ever care, tonight, maybe you can start again.”

            A small laugh is shaking my lungs and a smile parts my lips, because for the first time in a long time I feel safe. I feel relieved. I feel hopeful.

            “Laughing in the open air, have yourself another dream, tonight, maybe we can start again.” We sit there for a while in silence, no words coming from either of us we’re only listening until I finally break the trance with probably the nicest thing I’ve said all night.

            “Thanks.” I hope he gets what I am trying to say with that one word. I hope he understands how he helped me. I hope he doesn’t ask because I doubt I would be able to explain it.

            He doesn’t. Just like before he understands. He grins and nods.

            Other than that we say nothing. We go back to our small shells of silence to listen to the rain and the song and the sound of hope that seems to fill the air.

            The weather still looks annoyed, the stars are still hiding, thunder still growls and Brandon Flower’s voice is still singing.

            “Only the young can break away, break away

            Lost when the wind blows, on your own,

            Only the young can break away, break away

            Lost when the wind blows on your own,

            And the sun will shine again,

            And the sun will shine again”