chasing your dreams
:::-:::
It all started with a simple song. A single song that happened to be an old-time favorite to many adults nowadays. The kind of song that many parents say 'oh my good golly gosh, I love this song!' as soon as it comes up on the 'old-hits' radio; then they dance to it—resulting the child to be flushed the shade of tomato red.
I used to think that I was complete
That top song so many years ago, was written for me—as a lullaby that had kept me slumbering all through the darkness of nighttime. Through those harsh loud thunder storms and through the nostalgic moments I shared with myself in my room, in my bed while tears streamed down my flushed skin.
It kept me going even though it made me sad. It helped me through the time that my best friend, Derrick, died.
Even though I'm still not the same, fully none wounded girl as I was before.
But I know I'm not without my baby
The lullaby was one that I could sing word for word without having to glance at a single white piece of printer paper, or embarrassingly ask a friend what the other part of the second verse was.
It was just that important and familiar to me.
I'd like to be able to say that I was proud of this man who has written it for me, that it made me glow with embarrassment whenever one of my closest friends came up to me to complain that their father or mother randomly broke out into old fashioned dance moves in a car with their dates; but I didn't.
I'll try to be by your side
I guess there was a little part of me that would like to admit truthfully, and genuinely, that it made me feel singled out. Special, if you will. But that very small proportion of me was immediately blacked out when I remember the lyrics to the songs.
Those dreadfully sickening lyrics.
He knew me not.
The lyrics were written as if this man knew me from the very start, to present time. He most certainly did not. Because if he had stuck around and not ditched my abusive mother, maybe I wouldn't be in a black hole that was an abyss.
And cover up all those nasty lies
Maybe I wouldn't' have an alcoholic mother that takes out her drunken frustration out on her one and only daughter. Perhaps I wouldn't have to hide my bruises from the teachers in school that seem to grow more and more suspicious in school.
Maybe even I wouldn't have to contemplate hiding or telling.
Maybe.
I love you darling,
This lullaby is one of many,
I hope not to let you down—
But I know I will.
But even with all those 'maybes', it doesn't change the facts. The lies. The honest to god lack of faith.
I'm sorry to have to say this,
That I must put you in these shoes.
That I will definitely miss
All your special blues
He didn't even call once. Not even on birthdays. How are you supposed to love someone that barely cares these days? You're simply not, I guess.
Baby, 'cause all I ever wanted was your dreams,
To come true.
The stupid bastard left my mother and I shameful and shameless. Shameless apparently because he was a sick man—states my mother dearest when she's sober as she gets—and shameful from me—common sense 101—so all chances are done. All bets are off.
I'm sorry to have to say this,
That I must put you in these shoes.
That I will definitely miss
All your special blues
Baby 'cause I love you.
As if. Love, what is love? An emotion many people claim to feel once it 'bam!' happens? Or is it a placeholder? A word that happens to sum up everything a wordless, incoherent, or maybe even drunk, person can not? Perhaps.
A simple way to end,
A drunken way to begin,
But I did used to think I was in love,
In love. In love.
But so many strings pulled together.
'Cause baby, there's no forever.
The lies, the facts—what's the difference, really?
"Shut UP!" She drunkenly screamed right in my ear. Then reached over, not even putting down her damn beer bottle on the beaten coffee table, and slapped me hard against the already swollen cheek of mine.
Pleasant.
I'm sorry to have to say this,
That I must put you in these shoes.
That I will definitely miss
All your special blues
Baby 'cause I love you.
I definitely can say I don't know what the first thing about love is. No doubt—no regrets.
I would've gotten away with so much more than I have. Living on your own has these advantages—that is until you get caught. As if you were a plucky doe, caught in the middle of the road with bright, bright headlights aimed upon you. As if.
"She can't live alone—she's not even 18 years old!"
But that's the silly thing about hope. You can hope for all these nice electronics, and for a perfect world—but it doesn't change a thing. It doesn't, really.
No, it just builds up a staircase and leads you single handedly to a door where you face all disappointment you had been previously attempting to blacken—just like so many memories.
I'll let you down—
But don't you frown.
Remember, I love, who?
Baby, I love you.
I'm honestly tired of these lyrics. So eventually while I fall into deep slumber, I learnt to block out the habit to decipher the lyrics I had been so used to, and just let the melody carry me away.
Because words don't mean anything.
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