A white shirt and torn blue jeans has gone on long enough, and now we're lost somewhere in the crowd of violent colors. I can remember as far back as last week, I can remember Tool at Conseico and the colors they showed us. I remember that everyone present was male, and I wanted to fight all of them; they were my friends. I showed them a few of the things everyone else hates, and they applauded because they're too wrapped up in themselves to see how terrible my things are. They tell me nice things and congratulate themselves on a job well done. And then I tore into this fat kid in a chair. I told him to close his eyes, and he's not allowed to curse or mention sex or say any words beginning in x y or z. I asked him what he was. I asked him who he was. I told him, picture yourself, tell me what you look like.
I have a longsword of burnished steel; it is as tall as me. Its handle is plain black iron with moonstones set into it. It just kind of terminates, and the crossbar is unadorned. I have black armor on with a red rune etched into it. My hair is long, my face is gray.
Where are you, man?
I'm in a field of elephant grass. It's all green, and it's grass in all directions. The sky is gray like it's about to storm. There in front of me are my enemies, hundreds of them, some in rag-tag armor wielding swords and bows, some in black robes with evil symbols, and one stands out among them on his high horse with an axe as big as him, as big as me. It's mostly blade. They have no banners. It's beginning to rain now.
Behind me are my friends, my family, all the things I care about all huddled together and afraid. Now I'm running forward, and it's raining a little harder. My enemy doesn't move, and I'm not making any progress, either. God damn it!
Okay, wake up. What do you think? He doesn't know what to say. What do you say if someone asks you what you are?
I am a warrior.
I remember one man finding himself. I remember many men losing themselves. Does it take such hatred, such violence to find yourself again? I wanted to fight him all night. I wanted to fight them all. They are my friends, and they wanted to fight me, too. But everybody had responsiblities. We had jobs and classes. The bullshit buried us. One who wears armor should not brag like one who takes it off.
Myself, I long for love and light,
But must it come so cruel, and o so bright?
Leonard Cohen