In my place, in my place, living lies that I couldn’t face. I was scared, oh yeah.
Minutes make hours, and I am away from the place of my birth. Things mean something, something different to every person, to every person I’ve thought, though far more than any one person should think, thinking about thought and about people, about pianos and things undone, unsaid, and unfelt. Why was life so dramatic then and so subdued now? Is the me that was passionate and admirable lost? It’s like walking in a forest, following yourself side by side on a close but different path, which in time diverges and is obscured by brush; appearing less and less, then a more obscured and alien face, through ice.
How long must I wait for that grand something that is coming for me, for me who is increasingly patient? Do I ever remember what it was I was waiting for any more? How am I supposed to grow, why does really everything I grew from have to fall away? Why do I have to look after it singing please, please, come back and sing it out to me, come back to me. Can I live and not become what I always swore against: reactionary, cynical, and jaded?
Come up to meet you, tell you I’m sorry…
On a highway no an off-ramp, I lived in Vista just north and east of Carlsbad, the land of rainless nights and sunny construction. Winter at the beach and wading into the Pacific in February to be washed clean. Back, back to something I believed in, what an ignorant asshole, how did I wander away from that wide starry-eyed dreaming? Under stars on a river bank, describing passion and verve in simple words and dying to touch a soft hand. Did I drive myself into the worst kind of accident? Not a wreak that ends a selfishly violent life, but a nagging injury, one so subtle and minor that I’ll never notice it until my case is terminal.
What is really happening, and who am I to have opinions on how others should live their lives? The older I get the more thinking time I collect and the surreptitiously bigoted I become, pleading so desperately for an open mind but growing ever farther from the simple careless minister of life that I romanticize.
I’ve got to tell you in my loudest tones, that I started looking for a warning sign. And I’m tired, I should not have let you go. So I crawl back into your open arms. �@
Coldplay is the bridge from my college life to the bleak, chained wasteland of my twenties.
And in a wide sea of eyes, I see one pair that I, recognize. And I know that I am the luckiest.
SOMEDAY I WILL BE ME. [–written in exceptionally large, rounded cursive, like the kind I used in eighth grade.]
You can do anything you want with your life, we are a free people and that’s a wonderful thing. If I am ever to be a prisoner, it will only be of my own doing, to myself.
What do you want, David?
To not forget who I was, but be a stronger and more beautiful version of me. I want to mean something to myself and understand it.
I’m not tired, I just sleep.
I think way too much.
I need to live more simply, cleaner, with more control over my life. In my life; there are good games to play and be a part of you, but don’t waste your time on bad ones.
I was thinking of something…think I’ll get it done yesterday.
[Here I have a sketch that I drew quite randomly, just following the ever-moving silhouette of my hand on the paper beneath the pen.]
Gotta make a living, gotta pay the rent. Is that really supposed to be such a big deal? NHK some sort of shut up the misconceptions in my head such a terrible thing, stopping caring, such a terrible thing indeed. Much left me no I’m sorry I shouldn’t leave. The world has more for you. Good night. Let the moonlight take the lid off of your dreams.
Am I right? I’m lonely and I’m right.
Thinking for me is like a toy that I always carry with me. If there is ever a moment where I’m not actively doing something, I slide into myself and start playing. It’s like a ball which I throw back and forth between two hands, an endless game of catch with myself.