(no subject)

I shouldn't really do this, because it's terribly sad and nerdy, but there are a few lyrics going through my head at the moment, and noting them down might give me some idea why. Or more likely not...

"Thanks all the same
But I can't bring myself to answer your letters
It's not your fault
But your honesty touches me like a fire
The polaroids that keep us together
Will surely fade away
Like the love that we spoke of forever
On Saint Swithin's Day"
["St Swithin's Day" Billy Bragg (via Dubstar]

"My life is comfortable,
But I don't want that image for my fans
Inside I'm reasonable
But I'll make out they just don't understand"
["Look Dad, No Tunes" Half Man Half Biscuit]


I think the discrepancy between real life and unreal life is getting to me. In particular, keeping in mind that the real person is the one you meet, not the one you read about.

[Go on and read something into that - knock yourself out]

And to put it in perspective, an extract from a letter from a friend of mine:

"Any time you'd like to come up here for a weekend, let me know - it may be a better idea to do that rather than me come to you, as the distance I can walk is still very limited and, though I could bring a wheelchair, I don't see it being fair on you having to accommodate it / push me around!".

That at the end of a long and jolly letter about music, books and films. Which kind of puts things in perspective for me...

(no subject)

I'm not sure if this is a sure sign of mental decay, but I just found myself imagining that th decapitated heads atop the bone-white fence-palings marking the boundaries of Hell make their agony bearable by holding whist drives on Thursdays.

Actuaklly, I think I know what it's a symptom of, but there ain't a lot I can (or have the willpower to) do about it right now...