And your heart is a stone, buried underneath your pretty clothes

And your heart is a stone, buried underneath your pretty clothes

I keep thinking about Stockholm Syndrom and how sometimes things are labeled so easily and what about case-by-case basis, and good people and bad people and in-between-the-word-is-a-zillion-shades-of-gray people?  Today we went to the mall and I was trying on jeans and they fit perfectly and I was just standing in the dressing room, looking at them in the mirror and wondering how they were so different from the jeans I already had at home, when one of my favorite songs came on the radio.  And I thought, these are the jeans, I have to get these jeans.  So I did, in every color they had.  But now I'm sitting here and the window's open and i can hear crickets and I can't help but wonder about fate or coincidences or random occurrences of undeniable magicalness.    

I am leaving for college in a week.  I don't know what to think about it, so I don't.  I talk about it like it's an abstract thing.  It's happening on Wednesday, but it's not really.  I don't think it'll hit me until I'm lying awake in my dorm room bed at 3 am because everything smells different.