He never thought someone would come along
and show him the feelings he's always dreamed of.
She didn't plan on falling in love;
upset the balance she's wanted so long.
This road to recovery has taken all I have.
It seems hard; as I try,
I succumb once again.
Well, he lost control, and gave up his heart.
To follow the girl that he's always dreamed of.
She pulled away, so scared of a love
that might have been more than she had planned on.
This road to recovery has taken all I have.
It seems hard; as I try,
I succumb once again.
Well love is a bitch, all relationships end.
What happens now, when that person's gone?
The one who you thought you could always count on?
You fall in love, and they fall out.
Love is a bitch. All relationships end.
How do I let go of a love that meant so much to me?
How do I go on when you're part of me?
I'm dying inside each time I see you.
Don't lose sight of me, 'cause you're all I see.
You're still all I see.
This road to recovery has taken all I have.
©Rufio "Road to Recovery"
Road to Recovery by Elliott Jonesand show him the feelings he's always dreamed of.
She didn't plan on falling in love;
upset the balance she's wanted so long.
This road to recovery has taken all I have.
It seems hard; as I try,
I succumb once again.
Well, he lost control, and gave up his heart.
To follow the girl that he's always dreamed of.
She pulled away, so scared of a love
that might have been more than she had planned on.
This road to recovery has taken all I have.
It seems hard; as I try,
I succumb once again.
Well love is a bitch, all relationships end.
What happens now, when that person's gone?
The one who you thought you could always count on?
You fall in love, and they fall out.
Love is a bitch. All relationships end.
How do I let go of a love that meant so much to me?
How do I go on when you're part of me?
I'm dying inside each time I see you.
Don't lose sight of me, 'cause you're all I see.
You're still all I see.
This road to recovery has taken all I have.
©Rufio "Road to Recovery"
Natalie hesitated, shoebox in hand. Slowly, a reticent half-smile formed from her lips as she held up the shoebox and let it dangle precariously over the tacky Target© trash bin that sat in the corner of her bedroom. She felt as though she were Scar, claws extended, gazing down at Mufasa during arguably the most intense scene from her favourite Disney film, The Lion King—offering the shoebox a few seconds of agonizing self-contemplation before it was to be released to that plastic purple abyss. After a slight pause, though, she decided better of the betrayal—at least tentatively—and using her free hand rolled her also tacky, also purple computer chair over to where she had up until that point been standing. She rescued the shoebox from its demise by sitting down and placing it on her lap. She then traced over the white letters that decorated the top of the shoebox with her index finger, while simultaneously crunching her eyebrows together and tugging at her bottom lip with her teeth, as she thought about opening it.
It wasn't big, the shoebox, and she had been genuinely surprised (when she had begun to fill it) by how much it could actually hold. Its original occupants had been a pair of black ballet flats, purchased at Payless Shoes on sale for $8.50. The thing about flats, she had thought upon making the purchase, is that nobody can tell where you bought them, since there is no room on them really for a logo, and they are all cheap anyway, and they all look the same, and really she wanted to thank whatever person made shoes that were so cheap become the new trend, and even though everyone has them, it’s OK, and basically—it's the perfect deal. She smiled inwardly as she remembered her best friend’s immediate comment the first day she wore them: "Those are from Payless, aren't they?" They quickly lost their luster.
After emptying the shoes, and the little tissue paper that went along with them (whose purpose, rather inconsequently, she had never fully understood but had contemplated heavily), from their cardboard home eight or so weeks ago, she had tried to determine what to do with the shoebox. It was interesting to her how she had come full circle. Then she had stood, much like she had just now been standing, above her trash can—only that time contemplating what kinds of uses such a small shoebox might have, not struggling over whether to trash it. At that point she had not sat down in her chair, thought long and hard, and reflected on her summer, and her life—instead she, without any legitimate reason, put the shoebox on top of her bookshelf, telling herself "just in case”. How happy had she been, later that week, when she found it a fitting use.
And how surreal it was now: the realization that whether she had done it then or waited, the shoebox was still going to find the same destination—the bottom of her trash can—and that it didn’t matter if Mufasa died at the beginning or the end of the movie, or in the middle, that he was still dead. She felt regret pulse at her temples, and she wished, for some unknowable reason, that she had thrown it away then—maybe that way the memories contained within wouldn't haunt her so. But she knew that another shoebox would have taken its place, and she also knew that not only was regret meaningless, it was useless, self-destructive, painful, weak…
She opened the box slowly, and once again quietly noticed first how much could fit in it. His mix CD, of course, was the piece that so amazed her—when placed at a certain angle it fit as though it was born to reside there. She looked over the little bits and pieces that grinned up at her beguilingly upon her opening of the box. A couple movie ticket stubs, an extremely well made friendship bracelet, a ticket stub from the musical Les Misérables, the aforementioned mix CD, and a page ripped out of a book. “There isn't much here,” she thought to herself. “There isn't much to have to forget.”
Natalie took out the CD and looked at it yet again. "Come Sit On My Wall" was the title, and she remembered how proud of herself she had been when she had finally figured out where the title came from—the lyrics to a Damien Rice song, “Amie,” track number 4. It didn’t matter that that wasn’t her name. How many indie love songs were written about girls named Natalie? She had wanted to tell him that she had figured it out, but it had been at least a couple of weeks since he had given the CD to her that she made the connection—she had felt sort of embarrassed at how long it took. Maybe he thought she should have gotten it right away? At first, she had imagined it had something to do with one of the times they had gone to the beach, or sitting on the wall at the elementary school playground, or that it just sounded somewhat cute, or that it just sounded like something that you might title a mix CD (she had to admit that this was her first inclination). She extracted the booklet he had made along with the CD from the jewel case, and took a millionth look inside it. She turned the pages, slowly, and took in each one singularly. "Make me a mix tape that makes me yours," ended the quote on the third page, before the pages began that contained the lyrics to each song. She had never heard the song that this quote was from, as it wasn't on the CD, but she had wanted to listen to it after reading it there—she felt a little unfulfilled now as she realized she probably wouldn't ever get around to downloading it.
She realized something new about the booklet each time she perused it, and she noticed something now—his name was nowhere to be found. Even on the final page, where he wrote a little "enjoy it" type note, he didn’t sign it or write his name. Up until this point she hadn’t given it a second thought. A realization struck her now, however, and she couldn’t figure out whether it was her pessimistic imagination, or his genuine intention—she proposed, to herself, that he had kept his name off on purpose, just in case something like this ever happened—for her sake, so that she could listen to it and enjoy it still, even if he wasn't any longer in the picture. She closed her eyes and silently argued with him in her mind. “Why do you always have to assume that things aren’t going to work out? Do you have to prepare yourself for the end before anything—” She stopped, sighed, put the booklet back in the jewel case, and moved on.
There were two ticket stubs in the box, but they had seen more movies than that together—and she felt bad for not remembering exactly how many. She didn't even still have the stub from the first time they had gone, sans mutual friends—and she remembered how she kicked herself later for not saving it after she realized that that was their first… and she couldn’t think of the word. Not “Date”. The first time they had ever really done anything, "together," this summer. Once again, the realization of what she was now doing helped push her back into reality. “Who cares if you don't have that one ticket stub?” She asked herself. “It’s about to go into the trash now, anyways.” She looked closely at one of the stubs, and remembered vividly the night they had seen that movie.
They had gotten a little bit lost, and there had been traffic, and they had arrived late, and she had to run, in heels, through the theatre to their screen. And she had wanted popcorn, but there was no time, and she didn't get a beverage either, and he said he was sorry, and next time for sure. And they missed the beginning of the movie, and had no idea what was going on—and there were violent parts, and he apologized again, and he hadn't known. And blood splattered all over the screen, and she turned her head toward his, and curled into a ball, and she covered her eyes, and then—he gently grabbed her hand. And the movie screen, and the entire last hour, disappeared. Her mouth hung open for a split second as electricity flowed throughout her entire being. She silently looked over at him, as he watched. He looked back at her, with a quiet smile, to tell her that the scary part was over. She shook her head, closed her mouth, snapped out of it, and looked back at the screen... and in the present day, back at the ticket stub.
How meaningful had that night been. It was that moment... do you know that moment? When two people, suddenly, cease to be two people. When something, just, something happens—be it an event, a passing glance, a conversation, a kiss—and you stop journeying alone through your life, and suddenly you're on the same path as another human being, ambling awkwardly down that crooked, sidelong dirt road—the journey during which two truly become one. The hand grab was his step, his leap of faith—and she returned it then, in kind, and finally, finally they both knew that they 'liked' each other. And that wasn't supposed to be such a big deal anymore for 19 year-olds, but the few weeks prior to that had been spent in an excruciatingly difficult form of limbo—flirting, hanging out in groups, talking on AIM and occasionally the phone—and finally, finally it had officially become something she could put hope in, that she could rely on, that she could dream about, and that she could be afraid of. And as all of her past and present hopes and dreams blossomed again into her consciousness, regret mercilessly beleaguered her and every emotion possible enveloped and suffocated her at once, and Natalie began to cry.
She cried because as much of something as it had seemed to be, it wasn't something—or if it had been, it wasn't any longer, and it was entirely her fault. And she cried because it didn't matter how meaningful that day had been or what memories were evoked by the ticket stub or the rest of the contents of the box, or how well the CD fit in it, or really anything at all. Because once again it was going into the trash can and she had ruined it and she might have broken his heart and her own and she might never get a chance like this again and she knew that it had been a mistake to look into the box and she knew that she was pitiful for crying over a summer fling that lasted seven weeks, and she steeled herself and she ground her teeth together and she wiped away her tears and she shut the box.
Natalie stared down at the shoebox, now closed. She traced her index finger over the white lettering that decorated the top of it, and taking the box in her hands she stood up. She wiped away the traces of salt on her cheeks and walked over to the trashcan, and there, again, Lion King references aside, she hesitated. She, instead of executing that bitter murder, made her way to her bookshelf—and she set the box on top, where she couldn't help but say to herself it "belonged". At that point emotion once again overpowered her better judgment, her legs gave way under her and she fell to the carpet in a heap. Bitter tears stained her beautiful face as she lay, quietly, sobbing.