I’m not sure why I’m writing. Maybe I wanted someone to listen. Don't despair, she said.
So I came here. To speak. To practice that-for-which-we-kill-but-give-up-so-easily.
Listening again to Cursive again. No reason. More habit than purposeful engagement between us. The songs sing to me, and I respond with thoughts of depression and bereavement.
I don’t want to be a pretty thing, ‘cause it’s the pretty things, that we’re always breaking
It’s late. I should sleep. But I can’t, not with this flowing through my mind. I go back to school in less than three weeks. Back to the eternal respiratory illness that is the great city of Los Angeles. Back to superficiality and meaninglessness and hate and bitterness and lies and life. What happened to love and laughter?
All these verses share a theme, we don’t amount to anything
Maybe over the hill. Around the next bend there will be hope. For all of us? For any of us? Maybe there will be an answer. To. The. Question. That. Plagues. Us. All. Or really just some of us. The ones who think. Who question… society? Morality? Normalcy?
The drive to be better. Not better than. Only better. To better ourselves. To be better.
Day after bloodsucking day
But, to be better… is to be sick. Here, in this place. “You read?” “You read the news?” “Did you catch FOX News?” “You’re what?” “Liberal?”
To be sick. Educated. Intelligent. Literate. You know what WMD stands for. And IMF. NATO. NAFTA. WTO. Not just WTF and BRB.
I’m so transparent I disappear
Who do I kid? I am so little. Meaningless in the universe of this planet. But what are we? There are no compromises. No exceptions. There can be only one conclusion.
But we...we are something.