harry’s hair keeps getting longer, but so does the list of things he wishes he could go back and change. the thing is– a hair cut just grows back, and everyone knows you can’t change the past.
niall’s knee always aches right before a storm hits. when it aches under clear skies he wonders if real trouble’s on its way, or if there could be dark clouds over the irish midlands. either way he checks the weather.
people say tattoos tell stories. sometimes the boys look down at their bodies and wonder if the permanence of the pictures there is just to cover up for the fact that at the end of the day, they have nothing to tell. niall thinks some things are better left unsaid.
the scenes of their concerts get bigger each year, the ghosts of their voices are left to drift through ever-increasing spaces, until the echoes of them occupy a larger space than their bodies ever did.
time melts away into a mere suggestion of schedules and structure as the boys wonder at any signs of age, missing the way a sunrise used to mean something more
louis keeps feeling like he’s forgetting something every time he goes out for a smoke, every time he opens his phone, every time he shoulders into the next van. the itch of a phantom limb plagues him. the others can feel it too.
liam thinks the snakes are following him. they crawl just out of sight, in the corners of his eye-sight, around the shadows in his rooms. he knows they’re not here to hurt him, but the strange biblical-plague reminds him nowhere is really paradise enough to let your guard down
as they sink into the routine of touring, harry pulls out another vanilla-scented candle. as he watches the flame burn bright he wonders, not for the first time, if anyone can ever smoke-out the smell of transience.
zayn washes the shampoo out of his hair and feels the hot water run down his back as he realizes, for the tenth time that day, he’d been humming one of their songs again. he wonders in the truth of the subconscious and the memory of music.
louis wakes up at 5am again with another phantom itch. he looks down at his arm and notices the arrow on his compass has shifted for the fifth time that week. he sinks back into his pillows and closes his eyes, not wanting to know where it points, knowing that there could never be only one direction, simply many directions leading into the chaos of time. he puts his arm under his pillow and concentrates on the imagined certainty of home.
the pictures appear in magazines and news-stands showing harry crossing the street, or getting into a car, or buying groceries, or having lunch. he knows he did other things the past few days, but he can’t remember what. his un-photographed life slips away from him like a dream right after waking.
the screaming never stops
the running does.
no one can remember where they’re going to be next.
WHOAAAAAAAAAAA THIS POST NEEDS TO BE WAY LONGER TELL ME MORE!!!!!
well i kept it vague because i don’t think you have read the blue castle which is incidentally the ONLY l.m. montgomery book i have ever read and it is one of my top favorite in the world books it’s so good it’s SO GOOD
i think i described it to you in overwrought tones a thousand years ago when we saw MAMMOTHS AND MASTODONS but SPOILERS FOR THE BLUE CASTLE