FIVE THIRTY-EIGHT A.M. And the beat goes on... How could I ever have been so naive as to hang my hopes for improvement on my fledgling music collection? It's only flately that I realized that subconsciously perhaps I was expecting something slightly more from these silvery CDs I've been so avidly collecting than a little musical diversion. As if they were going to magically lift my spirits to soar. As if they alone were going to change my life anew... How very teenage... How very sad... How very me...!
Music does have a mood-enhancing or mood-altering effect of course. That's one of the chief reasons people listen to it. By surrounding myself with sounds that, to me, have no druggie connotations, I had assumed that my quest for clean would be somehow eased. But that's not how it's been.... It's not an unreasonable assumption to have made. I just think I set rather too much store on music's therapeutic powers. they just don't seem to be working as strongly as I'd hoped!
In my room I have a fan whirring. And when a certain substance that starts with shuh and rhymes with bit finally hits it this autumn... That is when I've scheduled clean.
There; I've told you now.
In my head I have a schedule, complete with activities. And this time (for reasons I cannot explain but have no say in) - there is no breaking it.
I've threatened myself with everything, up to and including death, for breaking former resolutions. Nothing has worked. For months and years they lay in smithereens forlornly at my feet, a testament to broken promises, and, to quote a cliche: broken dreams. Now all remnants of that past are swept away.
So to paraphrase Marianne Faithfull (again*): It's up to me. I just have to make it.
(* I quoted Marianne Faithfull a post or two ago.)
Leftfield: Release The Pressure
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