chrisfel.

Friday, September 07, 2012

Honey.

Honey on my forehead. On my eyelids. On my cheeks. On my nose. On the bridge of my nose. On my chin. Honey dripping from my forehead to my chin.

And Taylor Swift, singing boring songs to my ears. I recently noticed that I only have three songs by Taylor Swift in my music folder and iTunes. I was never really a fan. But I thought I'd check her stuff out by downloading an album...and I'm very bored so far. Cutesy lyrics, okay, but no. Her songs verge on monotony. But her lyrics -- I now comprehend why teenage girls adore her. If I were fourteen, I would probably be a fan of her music. (When I was fourteen, I was afraid of possibly dying a virgin. What's one thing you'd like to do before you die?, the English homework would ask. Not die a virgin, my thoughts would whisper. But I'm not fourteen anymore, and I'm glad.)

---

I know not who this be, but I have answered thy's inquiries.

---

I wanted to blog about sex and stupid people and irrational human beings and about the guy who caught my eye as I was driving, that though I rarely pay attention to my rear view and side mirrors, my eyes were fixated on him (or rather, his reflection on the said mirrors). And about major life decisions and the excitement and sadness of purchasing new sets of clothes and shoes and of weekend plans and lemons. And honey.

But I am sleepy. I told myself I wouldn't workout tonight, but I couldn't help myself. I just had to because it felt like the right thing to do. The energy in my body surprises even myself; I no longer fall asleep at work.

So I should probably end this nonsense and write in my journal. Or read a book. Or fall asleep.

---

No more dreaming of the dead as if death itself was undone

No more calling like a crow for a boy, for a body in the garden

No more dreaming like a girl so in love, so in love

No more dreaming like a girl so in love with the wrong world
Florence + The Machine


*I don't think I think enough.* tumblr instagram previous posts home	Friday, September 07, 2012 Honey. Honey on my forehead. On my eyelids. On my cheeks. On my nose. On the bridge of my nose. On my chin. Honey dripping from my forehead to my chin. And Taylor Swift, singing boring songs to my ears. I recently noticed that I only have three songs by Taylor Swift in my music folder and iTunes. I was never really a fan. But I thought I'd check her stuff out by downloading an album...and I'm very bored so far. Cutesy lyrics, okay, but no. Her songs verge on monotony. But her lyrics -- I now comprehend why teenage girls adore her. If I were fourteen, I would probably be a fan of her music. (When I was fourteen, I was afraid of possibly dying a virgin. What's one thing you'd like to do before you die?, the English homework would ask. Not die a virgin, my thoughts would whisper. But I'm not fourteen anymore, and I'm glad.) --- I know not who this be, but I have answered thy's inquiries. --- I wanted to blog about sex and stupid people and irrational human beings and about the guy who caught my eye as I was driving, that though I rarely pay attention to my rear view and side mirrors, my eyes were fixated on him (or rather, his reflection on the said mirrors). And about major life decisions and the excitement and sadness of purchasing new sets of clothes and shoes and of weekend plans and lemons. And honey. But I am sleepy. I told myself I wouldn't workout tonight, but I couldn't help myself. I just had to because it felt like the right thing to do. The energy in my body surprises even myself; I no longer fall asleep at work. So I should probably end this nonsense and write in my journal. Or read a book. Or fall asleep. --- No more dreaming of the dead as if death itself was undone No more calling like a crow for a boy, for a body in the garden No more dreaming like a girl so in love, so in love No more dreaming like a girl so in love, so in love No more dreaming like a girl so in love with the wrong world Florence + The Machine chrisfel at 03:40 << Home