uDisclaimer/u: So Weird is Disney's, bla, bla, bla, but angst is mine. MINE, ALL MINE!!!!! I am the most reflective, pessimistic person in the whoooooooole world. I am beaming with pride.
uA/n/u: This fic is mostly in relation to "Encore." Especially the end, and if I add songchapters . . .
~ uNot Another Molly/Carey Fic /u ~
I ambled out of my room -- the hallway was bathed in mournful, white sunlight, birthed through the windows and cracks in the doors. I hobbled towards the bathroom. All days start with disorientation.
It was the day after the nostalgic encore at my "final concert." I was supposed to feel pure, refreshed. I was supposed to feel relieved of all the pain I had been struggling with ever since Rick's death -- especially since (and this was very Fi-like of me) I had seen his ghost during the applause. At least, I think I did. It doesn't matter; I've hallucinated many a time, but I've never seen a spirit of the deceased.
I might have seen him cry. He was proud; he was content. And so was I, for that moment. I don't know how I got like bthis/b now.
I suppose it's only Monday morning -- the day after a blissful day. I had been ecstatic after the concert; hugging and kissing my kids, and Carey, and Irene, and Ned. But now I'm as angst-ridden as ever.
It's not that I dislike performing -- it's the meaning of my life. I'd throw everything away for music. And I'd also keep my mundane, monotonous, never - a - gig - gaining life for it.
I think that about says it all.
Even if it kills me, I'll hang onto this tour because of my music. I trust Carey with Fi and Jack.. I trust Rick with letting me proceed in the cycle of reality, without interfering in the interests of Fi.
She could have had uany/u infatuation with a hobby.
She chose ithe supernatural. /i
Could my life get more pathetic? Listeners degrade me -- I have to find a better audience. Other artists, just as good as me or worse, don't take any of that crap. So, why do I? It's not like I need it. There's plenty of crap on the defiled road to success.
But why must I have to endure so much, just to pursue one of the only things in my life that I've managed to keep a handle on? I don't understand it.. I don't like it.. I feel violated, abused, and underrated by life. All of my triumphs have past already. Now I get to watch the remains of them deteriorate, piece by piece.....
I just need someone who appreciated the things I did. Who might help me shield their present results from destruction. Someone who IS NOT dead. Who would that be?
i b "Of course I know it -- I grew up listening to all your old songs!" /b /i
Thanks a lot . . . .
uA/n/u: This fic is mostly in relation to "Encore." Especially the end, and if I add songchapters . . .
~ uNot Another Molly/Carey Fic /u ~
I ambled out of my room -- the hallway was bathed in mournful, white sunlight, birthed through the windows and cracks in the doors. I hobbled towards the bathroom. All days start with disorientation.
It was the day after the nostalgic encore at my "final concert." I was supposed to feel pure, refreshed. I was supposed to feel relieved of all the pain I had been struggling with ever since Rick's death -- especially since (and this was very Fi-like of me) I had seen his ghost during the applause. At least, I think I did. It doesn't matter; I've hallucinated many a time, but I've never seen a spirit of the deceased.
I might have seen him cry. He was proud; he was content. And so was I, for that moment. I don't know how I got like bthis/b now.
I suppose it's only Monday morning -- the day after a blissful day. I had been ecstatic after the concert; hugging and kissing my kids, and Carey, and Irene, and Ned. But now I'm as angst-ridden as ever.
It's not that I dislike performing -- it's the meaning of my life. I'd throw everything away for music. And I'd also keep my mundane, monotonous, never - a - gig - gaining life for it.
I think that about says it all.
Even if it kills me, I'll hang onto this tour because of my music. I trust Carey with Fi and Jack.. I trust Rick with letting me proceed in the cycle of reality, without interfering in the interests of Fi.
She could have had uany/u infatuation with a hobby.
She chose ithe supernatural. /i
Could my life get more pathetic? Listeners degrade me -- I have to find a better audience. Other artists, just as good as me or worse, don't take any of that crap. So, why do I? It's not like I need it. There's plenty of crap on the defiled road to success.
But why must I have to endure so much, just to pursue one of the only things in my life that I've managed to keep a handle on? I don't understand it.. I don't like it.. I feel violated, abused, and underrated by life. All of my triumphs have past already. Now I get to watch the remains of them deteriorate, piece by piece.....
I just need someone who appreciated the things I did. Who might help me shield their present results from destruction. Someone who IS NOT dead. Who would that be?
i b "Of course I know it -- I grew up listening to all your old songs!" /b /i
Thanks a lot . . . .