How I’d love to write you one of those lush love songs of the eighties. I wish I could spin out those simple, boring words, dripping with dreamy honey, a baroque revival in the form of American pop music. The over -dramatic saxophone poetically interjected with spacey keyboard notes that somehow lilts any audience to believing those simple, boring words. Those colors, too. Ridiculous amounts of glitter, decked with magenta and lime green. Electric blue frosted with iridescent white.
We spend our time alone slowly coming to the conclusion that we are the rule, not the exception. That those disgustingly catchy and heart-lifting songs aren’t us. They are at the right moment, but truthfully, and at almost all times, they aren’t. Alone, we are, in our cars at night. The streetlights making bronze halos in the windshield. Those studded yellow songs come stepping out of the radio and they hook you on minor relativity. I am alone. I am looking at the stars. I am waiting. I am thinking about you and wondering, ever so insolently, if you you’re thinking of me also. Then you pull up to your house and turn the car off and you sit there, again, lost in your own innocent hope. It’s girlish. It’s inane. You know better, but you relish in this private moment up until it falls apart. The realizations set in. He hasn’t called. He won’t call. He isn’t thinking about you and looking at the stars and writing silly poems of how he is waiting to be the one to scoop you up out of your lonely, dejected reverie.
I did that. I do that. All the time, every day, whenever I can. It’s all I think about. Those stupid, simple, shimmering songs of how love is enough to keep you sane. It’ll keep you sane, but it’ll drive you insane first.
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