Mystical, huh.

Ani DiFranco again.

I miss Maya. Every time I say this, I laugh because I remember drinking gin with her. Or I remember her running around the showers naked. Or doing sit ups whilst eating the best chocolate ever. Or me getting stoked about all my emotions whilst walking around beautiful rocks and instead of letting her appreciating them, ranting. Or her talking about teachers whilst two birds spiralled from the sky, mating in September, into a colourful canyon.

Why am I awake? I can't bring myself to get into that lonely bed in that lonely room.

The I'm-so-bored-room.

Remember, sitting in the mystic springs and I almost drowned him, I did, I was determined. Remember me rising dripping from the tub, god I was scared, thought he didn't have trunks on. Remember, your profile with the stars blue and silver and the sky practically white behind it, you whispering he was so angry? Fucked up, right, that that was the moment I decided I never wanted to miss anyone again. Remember the milky way like some sort of flowery arch, it was that bright, and that Irish girl, remember the one, whose name looked all wrong when she wrote it, remember her teaching us to float, remember being a dead man? Dead man float, dead man float. That was me, my head back, arms up to embrace the warmth of the red rocks, the red that the natives rubbed on to protect themselves, remember how we fell through the water yelling, whirlpool, how the rocks created storm clouds on my knees, red and purple and raised with pain? Remember how warm it was, and how we thought he must have put something in the water there were that many pairings up in the morning. Remember lying out on the tarps (but you didn't, you hid in the bus) and I remember that the sky made me fight off sleep, with Charley on one side and David on the other, all squished in so that we wouldn't roll off the mattresses, and remember how we all didn't want to sleep so that we could look at the stars just a little longer, o god, I wasn't too worried then, was I, about that anger, it wasn't til the next morning when he had red eyes and the look he gave me was so pure, because it was anger, and vengeance, and hatred, all twisted up into something which burnt white hot so that I couldn't get back into the hot water, for fear of what he'd do, couldn't run away, because we had to get on the bus (but I tried, didn't I?), how he was empty with anger and hangover. How he whipped out at me that night, how I sank from metal to concrete, wishing to fall off the edge and crying and something tugging tears from places I had never cried from before, was it just that stuff we were smoking? How I wound up with arms around me, don't cry honey, its okay. How I made you go because I wouldn't ruin your night (although I probably didn't help it much). How I can't think without brackets, now.

mystichotsprings.com/index.html