voodooscotch
Why is it I revisit the same songs when I'm feeling this low? Ritual?
Maybe a little.
There's more than a bit to be said for the romanticism of the familiar.
There's got to be a purpose for this bile pouring over the soul.
If not some life lesson (which I never seem to pick up on, the songs seem
to remain the same over the years) then it must exist as some sort of
dark inspiration.
I heard a quote recently that we are all born alone, and we all die alone,
the rest is an illusion. If it's an illusion, then whats the harm in
putting a soundtrack to the whole endeavor?
Maybe what I find endearing is the possibility in creating allies in
my alienation. No, that wasn't just an excuse to us alliteration, though
I will admit to dramatic allegories in the short time we've been interacting,
dear reader. What I mean by that is this ache in my heart is no stranger
to me, and each time I try to align myself with another, its only natural
to attempt to communicate this feeling when it occurs. Funny thing about
that is when its at its worst, I find myself incapable of explaining due
to a breakdown of relations or an inability to fully be understood (which
will soon result in a breakdown of relations).
So who do I have to count on in those times? Yes, my songs. Transcendence
or the closest I've ever come had been through perceived understanding
in musical lyrics.
Poetry.
there's an old voice in my head holding me back
well tell her that i miss our little talks
...
Though the truth may vary, this ship will carry our
bodies safe to shore.
One mistake, one falter and it festers forever. There is no letting it go for you. Its like flecks of gold in the pan, the payoff you've been waiting for. This damage is not mine, but I'll pay for it every time we get into this.
I see how you're looking at me. I know what's happening. What you don't know is that I've got you in my sights. I'm zoning in on you and there's nothing you can do about it. I know what you want to hear, and how long you've wanted to hear it. So do you, and we both know that you're going to fold into yourself and give me exactly what I want - you. There is no fighting someone like me, only a soft tumble into a sensual surrender.
its a finger dragging along the rim of a glass
wiping up the salty brine coating its smooth edge
Slipping the tangy residue past the parted lips
Insisting the tongue begin to pay full attention
I see the tragically hip song. An image of a thin man, wild expression with both hands squishing into the river mud, and his feet firmly planted on the bank behind him. He looks up to the sky and cries out some greeting to an entity he knows is more inside than above.