anancus

Daria, 24, Feminino, Croácia
www.twitter.com/daria__d

100699 execuções desde 1 Nov 2006

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Have you ever listened to a song or a band and thought that it made you complete? It’s silly, right, and it’s something we’re really only allowed to admit in between ages twelve and fifteen, before we’re taught to grow out of weird thoughts like that. But if there’s one band that would make me never want to let that go, it’s The National.

I mean, close your eyes, and picture someone singing to you: “Little faith, follow me. I set a fire in a blackberry field - make us laugh, or nothing will - set a fire just to see what it kills.” It’s a love letter, every song, every step of the way (“I wish that I believed in fate, I wish I didn’t sleep so late”), and it’s secrets spilling out from somebody else’s life (“And so, and now, I’m so sorry I missed you, I had a secret meeting in the basement of my brain; it went the dull and wicked ordinary way”). Words to keep you awake, and words that make things make sense: “Tired and wired, we ruin too easy; sleep in our clothes and wait for winter to leave,” and “Let me come over, I can waste your time,” and “All the very best of us string ourselves up for love,” underset to a current that somehow rolls itself out to be the life of everyone you know.

There are holes in the universe, and sometimes we fall through. And yet, somewhere in time, Matt Berninger is standing under a white-hot spotlight singing “I wanna hurry home to you, put on a slow, dumb show for you, and crack you up,” and “you know I dreamed about you, for twenty-nine years before I saw you - I missed you for twenty-nine years,” and you’re okay; so the world does turn, then, and you are okay.

It’s something that makes you fall on your knees, makes you sit down in the middle of nowhere and write poetry about poetry, something that irrationally breaks up all the bad things in the air until there are no words left, save for three, three little words, and you want to repeat them over and over until they are locked up in the very last safe place inside of you - ”This is home,” you say, and you go around telling it to people who may or may not understand (and you don’t care if they do or don’t), something impossibly warm and bursting in your chest: “I’ve found it,” and “here it is,” and “this is home,” this odd secret place, and you’ll take it, you’ll keep it forever, green gloves and lemonworlds and all.

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