Wednesday, 25 January 2012

Just wait for tomorrow

I'm trying to de-clutter my life and failing miserably at it.
Yet, tonight I decided to put some orders into my papers and documents.
Bad, horrible idea. 
What I simplify as "my papers and documents" is in reality a huge messy stack of miscellaneous A4 print outs, cross stitch patterns, pay slips and bank statemens, post-its with password of accounts closed around three years ago, notes jotted down in different time of my life, bus and cinema tickets, stickers and pictures.

I've decided to be resolute and to throw everything that was not strictly relevant to my life now. It's time to let go, I said to myself this evening.

As I was tearing apart paper after paper, I found a small piece of paper, taken out of a school diary:

"I would like a place I could call my own
Have a conversation on the telephone
Wake up every day that would be a start
I would not complain of my wounded heart
Just wait till tomorrow
I guess that's what they all say
Just before they fall apart

When I first hear these words, I couldn't get them out of my head. I recorded the song from the radio on a tape and I used to play the song over and over.
Play, stop, rewind, stop, play, rewind a little bit more, stop, play, stop, repeat from beginning. 
The tape broke at the end. I heard Bernard Sumner voice deforming into a slow grotesque sound and it was too late: the tape had snapped and twisted beyond any possible recovery via screw with a bic pen.

"Regret" fitted to my moody teenage self. I liked it a lot. 
No matter the gloomy and pessimistic outlook it seems to have on life, I've always found it somehow comforting.
I still feel the same ache when I listen to it now and I still like it. More than a lot.

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