Heavy hearts fallen further.
February 17, 2013 § 1 Comment
“Kill me now ‘cos I let you down” – The Strokes, New York City Cops.
I could see the song in her eyes so much that I’d stop hearing it in my ears. The whole audio was lost and my entire perception of what could be heard was communicated to me entirely in through those pistol blue eyes half tucked away under a dirty blonde fringe. I look away and let the song hit my ears again, it rises and falls like how I saw it. She’s sat across from me in a bar down in the south, wooden tables meet the broken wooden legs of our unstable table, small, wooden chairs, neon signs, people. Lots of people. That noise of people, of friends, rings out under the music, like shouts at a concert. She looks up through her fringe, smiles softy, it’s easy, it’s free, it’s that contradiction of security that I’m terrified I will loose. Oh life, you’re just a penny in a well, you’re a fallen leaf in a forest, you’re that football lost on the roof, you’re long forgotten here.
I’d dam near died trying to get here. Jumping lanes in the dark, flashing through traffic, the engine screaming like a wounded animal. Downshifting, engine breaking, that subtle kick back on the rev jump. Throwing it through corners, actually smelling the burning on the break pads. She provides the exact feeling to me that I felt on the way when I entered a corner a little too hot and the back stepped out. She is that adrenaline dump, that rush, that feeling that you are doing something worth while with your life for the simple reason that have this running through your veins. For the simple reason that the dead don’t feel like this. All of those reasons coupled with the grim and simultaneously blissful feeling of knowing that this beautiful emotion could mean that in the end of the next 4 seconds, you may well be dead, but what a last thing to feel.
This is what living should be, every once in awhile, not too far apart. That feeling like someone is hitting a heavy bass drum inside your heart. Steady rhythms are knocked into instability by pretty girls. That sweat. That glorious feeling of having avoided certain death another time. To have lived to fight another day. Heavy hearts are fallen further by idle action and self pity. No good can come from milling around, staring at the walls, going over it all in your head. Run. Fucking run. See if you can outrun the thoughts, go, not trying hasn’t been helping has it? Run. Don’t die though. The art is not dying. It took me a few years to work that one out, have it’s yours, try it on, it suites you.
I need more direct than this? Don’t we all. Yes. I owe you direction.