Tuesday, September 30, 2008


Soundtrack: Eric B. & Rakim / Follow the Leader

The hardest thing about getting back on your feet is your own weight that tries to drag you down. For me it's the voices which constantly remind me of the need to feel crap. That I don't deserve to face the day as a happy man. That I should stare at the floor. That I can't look you in the eye.
It's because I don't want to be the sort of person who doesn't think like that. I don't want to make mistakes and move on, wipe them clean in my memory, think, c'est la vie and oh noes and well, dust it off, cowboy. I think I want the dust to stick but I can't tell if that makes me a better person or just a guilt ridden sucker.
Sure, there's a fine line. It's always easy for people to tell you there's a fine line.
Mine's a fucking tightrope. And when I fall, it's a long way down between these two poles. When I fall I grab the line and it pulls the whole tent down with me.
Christ, all I did was throw a tiny fucking snowball down the side of the mountain.
But that's not all you did.
But it was all I did.
No it's not.
Yes it is.
And so on.
It rolled further.
And so on.
It grew.
And so on.
It took the whole fucking joint with it.


I guess if eyes are the window to the soul, then words are the key to unlock the front door.
A way to explore the rooms inside. But you can be a guest. Or you can crash in uninvited. Words can do that. I need to learn to keep my words secured safely to my belt. Far from the greedy hands of those imprisoned souls who reach from behind the bars in Hope of an escape.

I was never here to set anyone free.
I was always just walking these corridors.
As much a prisoner as anyone else.
That's why the words that came at me were just as much a torture as any I had shot.
Straight from the rack, both balls, top pocket, try angle that one, far cue, you made this happen, you wrote those names on the board with your small chalk and then you rubbed them off.
But it was a game I didn't even know I was playing.
Too late now, the white ball is stuck.
Game over - the metaphor is dead, off to green velvet La La Land.

That's what the empty soul does at the end of the night. Walks with its collar up back down familiar streets past the same old windows which have cursed it year after year of fucking menial - man, you are still fucking here? And there's a new supermarket and that old bar has changed hands and changed legs probably too and have you heard the new joint, it'll be like old times, those savvy operators, moving back, just up the road, let's all meet there and wonder at who is still here.
That's the worst part. To me we were Hope of somewhere far away. But I was too slow, too the same, too day by day, too opposite every part of your fantasy, for I was tied by a rope which anchored me to reality, and god I wished we could have met somewhere in between. It would have been right where the water met the earth. Where we were always at our happiest.
Wishin's not for me though, is it? Wishin's for you. Slow circles of time is more my gas. Way out there in the cold heart of space, where it takes seven years even to reach me, let alone understand what lies beneath my ice cold facade. That's-a-turn no one's been willing to make yet. Not with all the dangers involved in gettting there. No one except you. But your mission was doomed from the start.
I wish I was any other planet. I really do.
Still what happens now is tomorrow comes, it always does whether I'm here or not. Tomorrow comes and the part of everyone that holds the future expands with new possibility as the part that holds the past contracts. This is the law of gravity, and we're all suckers for it, just like the rest of the universe. We all spin in orbit around each other and sometimes things just crash into us and sometimes we just implode. You know that, don't you? That we are all the universe. I know you know that. We are the universe and we just keep on repeating bigger and bigger and smaller and smaller and it's dizzying the way it's all laid out, so beautiful and chaotic and daring and right. So beautiful. But we never said it was a forgiving universe. It's just the universe. Fucking crazy.

I wonder what it'll look like tomorrow.

No comments:

Post a Comment