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TRACK NAME: Where is My Mind?
ALBUM TITLE: Surfer Rosa
ARTIST: Pixies


where is my mind? // pixies

your head will collapse
and there’s nothing in it
and you’ll ask yourself,
"where is my mind?"


A Softer World: 1131

(my self esteem is innumerate)

buy this print



Yeah. It helped a little.

[Sonya hadn’t been kidding about laying down at the end of his bed. Her body appreciated the comfort, but there was another added benefit in that staring at Daniel’s ceiling avoided staring at Daniel himself, or just past his head, or at their feet. Sonya could feel his eyes on her, and she knew it was better to say something at this point rather than tiptoe around the elephant in the room indefinitely.]

Listen, Daniel. I… This stays between us, in this room. Please. I’ll leave if you ask me to, and if, if you do tell other people it’ll just be another fucking rumour chasing after me, so— [Her hand relaxed from the fist she’d unwittingly bunched into his sheets, and when she rolled her head to look at him she held no real aggression, just a distressed agitation that leaves her quickly like a deflating balloon.] I. I’m sorry. This is not easy for me.

Sonya, really.

[He shifts on the bed to face her, sprawling out on his stomach with his head propped in his hands, feet kicking idly behind him. He’s not physically worn out like she is, but he’s burned out mentally, so the sense of exhaustion in the room is mutual.]

First I’d like you to recall that I am literally the most antisocial person in this school, with the exception of you and occasionally my roommate. Gossiping about you requires actually speaking with people who aren’t, you know, you. And I’m so not about that.

[Daniel huffs a little sigh, reaching to lay one hand over hers. Stress is a side of Sonya he hasn’t seen yet. and frankly, he doesn’t like it one bit— Sonya should always be happy, he thinks, the world should treat her right and not send her to his room feeling like shit.]

You know I’d never do that to you. Nothing you say here is gonna make it to anyone else. I just want to you tell me what’s got you so upset.



[John pulls back, his eyes thoughtful, and pushes until it’s his fingers curling around his roommate’s arm, gentle not because he’s worried about making sudden movements but gentle because the motion’s unconscious.

Anger isn’t something he’s fond of, not really. On any given day John might act like he relishes his rage, might play like it fuels him when really—it’s like being chained to a rocket. There’s a gun in his mouth and he never knows when it will go off and who will get hurt and he’s not sure if he’s the one who fires it, he just knows that his knuckles are pink with layers of scars and that it’s nothing short of exhausting to hold that much mindless feeling. And that’s what it is. Mindless. He’s not even mad at Daniel when he gets pissed with him, not really. He’s just mad in general. That’s not something John really knows how to explain, and in any case, hey, I know I’m an absolute monster but it’s really not about you, I’m just mad at everything sounds really fucking awful.]

I know I’m angry. Trust me, that’s not something you can really forget—I guess, I don’t know, maybe the same things. So many years of feeling like this and now it’s the only feeling left in me that still works because it burned away everything else.

[An expression rises to his face—shame, perhaps?—and John drops his gaze. It finds his hands still curving around Daniel’s wrists and that holds his attention for a moment as he realizes that’s what he’s doing and hell, they’re practically holding hands like that. He knows he’s probably making Daniel uncomfortable but touch seems like a better argument than whatever he’s trying to say so he keeps them there and starts again.]

Look, okay, I can’t make you any promises as far as radical behavior changes but I guess. Like. Constructive outlets or something, I don’t know. I get that I’m not a very fun person to be around and I’m. Sorry. I guess. I don’t want to be awful.

You’re not awful.

[The words eek out before a quiet, quick breath, a futile attempt attempt at communication. He can try, he said he would try, right? Daniel swallows, thick and pained against the tears that threaten to fall, and looks down at their hands. Would you look at that. That’s something.]

I mean, you’re— you’re fucked up, I’m fucked up, but you’re not. You’re not awful, I think. You’re actually, like, pretty great. Really.

[Daniel knows what it’s like to only feel one thing for so long, to be overwhelmed by a singular emotion that washes all the rest out to sea. Loneliness came naturally at first, it flooded the floor beneath him and rose in levels like water— cold and surrounding and soaking into his bones, until it was too deep to breathe anything else in. And here he is, the day after his twentieth birthday, ready to let it drown him. 

John was right about things being a two-way street, and that applies to Daniel’s problem specifically, too. The walls he’s had up around him for so long do as much harm to the outside as they do to him. Years of people trying to get in and failing meant years of him beating against those walls, aching to let them down even for a minute. You stop feeling anything for so long, you forget how to process new emotions. God, Daniel wishes he could be as angry as John is sometimes. Just so he could feel warm and alive. Just to know his heart is capable of something other than aching. He knows where the anger lives inside him, and he knows it’s been growing, but it’s as inaccessible as anything else.]

Maybe we both just. I dunno. We both need work, right? I mean, I can’t even talk to people in classes without feeling like I’m suffocating, and you… Yeah.

[He looks down for a moment at their hands again, his fingers flexing gently around John’s, lacing them loosely. He’ll pull away, surely, but he may as well while he has the chance. It’s his last-ditch effort to struggle for breath.]

I don’t wanna change you. I just wanna know you. It’s a shitty thing for someone like me to ask of anyone, but I just. I wish you’d let me in.


there are approximately 1,013,913 words in the english language but i could never string any of them together to explain how much i want to hit you with a chair.

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