What were you meant for?
January 30, 2013 § Leave a comment
“I’m as calm as a fruit stand in New York and maybe as strange.” – Ryan Adams – Dam Sam (I love a woman that rains)
It still amazes me, how much I change from person to person. From swaggering, confident, wild-eyed madman to scared, nodding child. Every notch on the spectrum, at some point in the month. Just when I though I had all this figured out again. I’ve been going slow. Easy. And it’s made me make choices. I’m too young to glide. Coast. From day to day. Long shifts, short shifts, sleep, Day off, week on, day off, week on, pay day, rent, food, essentials, poor, long shifts. 65, dead. It’s a loop. It’s a loop and no one is going to break it for you. Moments like this require action. A line allows progress, a circle does not. Strive. Break the grip of gravity. Fight, fuck, fucking be a man, even the girls. Need it. Your life is slipping through your finger tips. It’s passing you by. It’s oozing out of you, like the last breathe in the lungs of road kill. Too long in bed. Followed by not enough in bed. You need the later in your life. Really. I love how the guitars sound on this album. Angry. Like they are going to do something. Like, if they had too. If they were forced too. They could fight. They could feel that surge of aggression, passion, that fear and pulsing rush, that maybe, just maybe something sharp and beautiful punch through the extra thick bubble we blew around ourselves. Fight, fucking fight. Want it. Fucking go out and get it if you have to. Rest is rust.
I can hear her glide across the wooden floor boards in the next room. I know she can hear me hitting keys through the low noise of this Tuesday night. She thinks I’m doing something grown up. She thinks I’ve got this all sorted out. I hide the fact I don’t because I know the thought that I would, gives her hope. Hope that she can join me in my charade. False hope? Yes, but hope none the less. Glorious hope. Naive, stumbling hope, that maybe, hey, just maybe, this all might be OK. I yet to make up my mind about that too. All I know is that she is her. Beautiful her. Sweet, perfect, never hurt anyone, her. Blissful, easy, extension of the best parts of me her. Time bomb her. Maybe that’s the trick. Maybe I need to get away before the bomb goes off. Who am I kidding? I started doing that years ago. Maybe this time I should stick around to see what’s left. See if the smoldering earth is habitual. Too see if, were I to plant my seeds there, would anything grow? Would I grow another time bomb? Maybe it would be good to get a little shell-shocked. Hell, at least you’d know you were alive.