ABBA (if only).

Can hear people talking out on the street
but I don’t know what they’re saying
in their drunken little groups,
they’re not talking to me,
eavesdropping behind my window,
making sure they can’t see
the bright light reflection of my curiosity.

You’re off somewhere with him and I’m burning up in this life I’ve locked myself in. Not even chasing anymore. Just staying put. Giving up. On chores, on homework, on eating properly. Giving up on myself even more than on you, and not even shooting stars can ignite my hope. Not even writing hopeless lovesongs no more. They have no place in my life these weeks. They would only serve to cause even more damage, leaving me completely stranded like the beached whale who has no chance for survival. I feel it beating still, but that’s the only clue. You wouldn’t know it by looking at me, I’m sure. I wouldn’t know it if I couldn’t feel it, that my heart still goes on. It all feels so empty in there. And what’s a hollow ribcage but a nightmare? And what’s it to you? Do you ever see that deep inside of me? Want to make sure there’s something to make sure, but I’m less and less inclined to think there is. I’m observing more now than ever the way people interact with each other, how they cling to one another and call the other “lover.” I’m noticing the rhymes of humanity, but from where I stand it sure resembles insanity. If I could just break out of my habits. If I could do what Beach House obviously can’t, there would be open fields galore for me, new adventures for all eternity. I could run to the beginning of the world or down from the highest tower, and I could feel excitement shake my core, fill my body, fill my head, fill me up through a gust of power.

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