![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
I've never traveled very much, I do the best avoiding Ebay that I can, and the truth is I never intend to go back to Texas. Not for long, and not in any way that lasts. By the time I'd returned to LA, it seemed like all the really grand retreats were already being used by people brighter, and stronger than me. The stage of a club, or a rocky coastline, even basements and roofs didn't seem to fit me. They were for people who had more to look over, and farther to go.
Even if originality wasn't a worry, it still felt like there could be just a few that fit. Not that it's even my favorite, more than something favored, and the sliver of a difference that seperate the two. It's just what I go back to, again and again.
I retreat to my room, when I had just one, and my bedroom, now that there's more. It's where I go when I think, and the quiet's welcoming. It's where I go where I'm lonely, and the quiet consumes, pricking at me to do something about it. It's where I go when I hurt.
At first I think it was about the four walls, which just so you know? People take much to much for granted. And then there's the lock, the click that sounds as it falls into place, making everything sound safer, even when it really isn't. Sometimes just the sound of it's enough. And then the world on top of the walls, the ones that get to tell the stories you want, and need to hear. The ones you get to control, instead of being the one that gets controlled. There's a difference there. I can't even explain it right, but there's a difference.
Sometimes it slides from retreating, into hiding, and I know that. If I read them right, the walls say it, and if I listen right, the quiet whispers it. And I wonder if that's just the ways of retreats, or a bit of weakness at the door.
Even if originality wasn't a worry, it still felt like there could be just a few that fit. Not that it's even my favorite, more than something favored, and the sliver of a difference that seperate the two. It's just what I go back to, again and again.
I retreat to my room, when I had just one, and my bedroom, now that there's more. It's where I go when I think, and the quiet's welcoming. It's where I go where I'm lonely, and the quiet consumes, pricking at me to do something about it. It's where I go when I hurt.
At first I think it was about the four walls, which just so you know? People take much to much for granted. And then there's the lock, the click that sounds as it falls into place, making everything sound safer, even when it really isn't. Sometimes just the sound of it's enough. And then the world on top of the walls, the ones that get to tell the stories you want, and need to hear. The ones you get to control, instead of being the one that gets controlled. There's a difference there. I can't even explain it right, but there's a difference.
Sometimes it slides from retreating, into hiding, and I know that. If I read them right, the walls say it, and if I listen right, the quiet whispers it. And I wonder if that's just the ways of retreats, or a bit of weakness at the door.
