Falling Slowly

Falling Slowly
Glen Hansard and Marketa Irglova

I don't know you
But I want you
All the more for that
Words fall through me
And always fool me
And I can't react
And games that never amount
To more than they're meant
Will play themselves out

Take this sinking boat and point it home
We've still got time
Raise your hopeful voice you have a choice
You'll make it now

Falling slowly, eyes that know me
And I can't go back
Moods that take me and erase me
And I'm painted black
You have suffered enough
And warred with yourself
It's time that you won

Take this sinking boat and point it home
We've still got time
Raise your hopeful voice you had a choice
You've made it now
Falling slowly sing your melody
I'll sing along

My roommate introduced me to this song our freshman year. I bought it off itunes instantly and haven't stopped listening to it since. It's my top played song on my Itunes, and I love it. It won an academy award that year, as it is from the movie Once.

I feel so...displaced. My heart feels heavy, and I do everything I can to try and lighten it's load. It seems that the things I do can sometime make it heavier, however. I feel like I'm swimming through some kind of muck, without actually knowing where I'm going, but knowing I have to get somewhere eventually. So I paddle through all the details slowly and meticulously in the muck. I just try to relax and let it slide past me, but sometimes I get stressed. The muck seems endless, and the swimming pointless. I have this feeling of urgency to get where I'm going as quick as I can, because I feel like I'm running out of time. Why I am running out of time, I have no idea. It just seems to be ticking away. At the same time, I want time to move faster, to get to the part where I feel alright again already. To get to my ending destination where I could live and be happy. And I do things that I know won't make me feel better, but I still do them. And a tiny spark is emitted that glows in my eyes faintly, staining my retinas, remaining intact and providing as a reminder. A reminder of what almost was. Torturing me to the end.

I provide myself small moments of happiness in all the muck. Maybe I find a small island to crouch on, and if I'm lucky, a little pond to wash away the grime that seems to cling to me happily. But it doesn't matter if I clean it off here, for I must climb into the muck again, against my will, to fight my pain of urgency, to find my destination. And I have no idea where it will end.