Listening: Dashboard Confessional, A Mark, A Mission, A Brand, A Scar

I long for my days to mean something again. I long for my days to be definitive demarcations of passing time, instead of just a legal definition: to contain 24 hours.

Like quantum physics (I think), in which the experimentor must be included as a factor in the results of the experiment since the mere presence of the observer affects the action, music's impact on emotions and which of those proverbial heart strings a song tugs more relies almost wholly on the listener's previous mood. The words I hear speak to my problems and are analyzed with the benefit of my particular experience; when you hear "I am missing":

(It's a long way) is there anything
(For an answer) worth looking for
(Is there any news) worth loving for
(Is there any word) worth lying for
(Is there trauma) is there anything
(Or a struggle) worth waiting for
(Am I missing) worth living for
(Was the body found) worth dying for

do you question, like I am right now, how important work is? how valuable a new location is to becoming your own person? how likely it is I'll be as happy or make as good of friends or love? Do you find yourself questioning if a physical "long way" is worth it, or what is worth loving for or lying for? Wondering why your mind tells you, logically, you make appropriate decisions when your blood rushing tells you something completely different is worth living for. Or dying for, for that matter.

My mind is a scratched CD that keeps trying to skip track 3 without the confidence that there is a track 19 to eventually play. Though I feel strangely between dreams, between goals, right now, there's also some unknown yanking me to fast forward, that I'll suddenly recognize my new goals when the right track plays. I'm stressed that I don't feel stressed; I'm worried because I'm so calm and settled when I should SO not be.

My fingers nervously scramble about the keyboard, trying to find the strokes to fulfill the racing, spinning records that are each vying to sing a different story of emotions in my heart. With my room empty, the dinged-up white walls scream memories of what used to be there, yelling at me to remember, remember, remember. When do we stop remembering? When does remembering stop being bittersweet and remain just sweet? Do we ever stop wondering if we're doing the right thing, even if we really are, or do you know when you stop wondering that you're not listening to your heart anymore?

Blog, can we just pretend to go back to the diary days, when you'd coax me with your open and fresh screen to release my thoughts, relieve my pressured, swollen, confused, little girl's mind with simple, monosyllabic, trite words? I'd sob and get the keys wet and that was enough for the both of us. Remember those days? Back when "bigger picture" meant you had too much blank wall space, not that you were ignorant to larger, more "important" issues. Back when I knew that as much as I worried, things were going to be ok. I just knew. And as much as I still think things are going to be great, I realize more every day how responsible I am for how these prodigal "things" turn out. I just want to wish on falling stars, the man on the moon, and the fortune in my cookie.

Through the tumult raging upstairs, I've stayed sane, happy, and peaceful because I've been able to express it to you, friends; maybe not in a way that made any normal sense, but I've felt comforted, supported, and encouraged. To the special people I'm smiling about right now, thank you.

And bloggy, soon enough these overly squishy end-of-a-major-phase-in-life emotions will be replaced by the next concerns life drags out. For now, though, I want to revel in how it feels to love, and be loved by, friends.