The Writer - Ellie Goulding.

Sat on your sofa...it's all broken springs
This isn't the place for those violin strings
I try out a smile and I aim it at you
You must have missed it
You always do


But I've got a plan
Why don't you be the writer and decide the words I say?
Why don't you be the artist; and make me out of clay?
Because I'd rather pretend
I'll still be there at the end
Only it's too hard to ask... won't you try to help me?





There's a lot in this song that I feel like I can relate to. How someone wishes to be someone's ideal that they would submit to changing, to be subject to their moulding because you are yearning for them so much, for their acceptance and everything lovely about them. And is that the type of love that is not worth it? I wonder.


I've never been in love before. To crave love...is that a human instinct? Yeah, I think so. I mean why would there be so many pop culture dedications to something we cannot grasp or perfect easily? As I think more about it, I am perhaps a girl who doesn't know much about love at all. It's these times when you're on the brink of verging into adulthood that you think that maybe one day you can just emancipate and grow up, experience these. Sometimes I feel like I am only growing up now...others did so in high school, I'm going through mine in university.  Whatever.