Holding it out in times of famine, with hearts spent and eyes in strange hues of bloodshot. Those are but images, outside there is strength. There are resolves to go on, to keep moving, to be as the world is. To be something, just don't lose. Carry on, what are you waiting for?
No, nothing really matters, and nothing is ever worth that much. But there are so many ironies in saying that, because if it's inconsequential, then why pour your soul into it? Why lose what little you have saved? It could be anything, anyone. Irreplaceable is not a possibility or an option; in fact, options open- it's what we're all about, isn't it? It's the pain of losing things that catch you with a slow, surprising tingle, and make you feel alive again. It's that, excuse the cliche, magic, so to speak. But as surprising as it is at its onset, the excruciatingly deliberate way it takes a toll is anything but a walk in the park. Everything but that. You know why it's easy to watch sandcastles wash away? Because they're just that. Sandcastles. You build them so the water will sweep them into itself. And no matter how long you spend, it's never forgotten how transient they are.
What I'm talking about now.. this? This is not a sandcastle. It could be a mirage. An oasis, imagined of course. Definitely not a castle of something that washes away with ease and grace.
This right here is dirty. There's a reason no one ever talks about it. It's uncomfortable to think of it gone wrong. It is unbearable. Torturous. So you push and you push and you push it away, all the way to the back of your head.
But this isn't a hundred dollar note you'd thought you had lost, and then one day found in some pocket of some jeans you wore six months ago. Oh no. There is nothing pleasant about the stark realization that there is nothing but you. You are the only reason you exist, and you are selfish, alone- but it is all about you. But then you're cut up into these pieces you can't reconcile yourself to. They cut into parts that are absolute secrets, but how do you keep something from yourself?
Never had much of a penchant for painting things rosy. No, sir.
No, nothing really matters, and nothing is ever worth that much. But there are so many ironies in saying that, because if it's inconsequential, then why pour your soul into it? Why lose what little you have saved? It could be anything, anyone. Irreplaceable is not a possibility or an option; in fact, options open- it's what we're all about, isn't it? It's the pain of losing things that catch you with a slow, surprising tingle, and make you feel alive again. It's that, excuse the cliche, magic, so to speak. But as surprising as it is at its onset, the excruciatingly deliberate way it takes a toll is anything but a walk in the park. Everything but that. You know why it's easy to watch sandcastles wash away? Because they're just that. Sandcastles. You build them so the water will sweep them into itself. And no matter how long you spend, it's never forgotten how transient they are.
What I'm talking about now.. this? This is not a sandcastle. It could be a mirage. An oasis, imagined of course. Definitely not a castle of something that washes away with ease and grace.
This right here is dirty. There's a reason no one ever talks about it. It's uncomfortable to think of it gone wrong. It is unbearable. Torturous. So you push and you push and you push it away, all the way to the back of your head.
But this isn't a hundred dollar note you'd thought you had lost, and then one day found in some pocket of some jeans you wore six months ago. Oh no. There is nothing pleasant about the stark realization that there is nothing but you. You are the only reason you exist, and you are selfish, alone- but it is all about you. But then you're cut up into these pieces you can't reconcile yourself to. They cut into parts that are absolute secrets, but how do you keep something from yourself?
Never had much of a penchant for painting things rosy. No, sir.
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