I know that you're an... artist,
You're the... hardest one to deal with...
Everything that you conceal
is revealed on your canvas...
To be... the victim of machinations beyond your influence, and to never be considered. To be.. nothing more than 'collateral damage' in the outcomes... to never know anything but your relative... unimportance.
What is under your control?
If... anything even is at all?
You find all of your ugly meanings
In the things that I find beautiful...
And even though you play into their games... you never ever win. There's... always a price. There's always someone that gets hurt. Why... do you even do this?
Because... things don't take a natural course. Or maybe... this is it.
To be completely avoided in the larger scheme of things, to be a bit-player in lives other than your own. Why does anyone bother?
But your eyes are drawn of charcoal,
they're black, they're so cold... they're imperfect...
Because they see a sleeping world
where waking isn't worth it...
Maybe there isn't a song for you. Only silence.
And the cruel inevitability of fate.
Because it is even crueller to presume that your position is the result of choice.
I... refuse to wake up.
Not out of choice, but because nothing will change if I do.
Because they see a sleeping world
where waking isn't worth it...
Sunday, November 15, 2009
Saturday, November 7, 2009
Stars and Things.
If there is anything. If there is anything at all.
You're the echoes of my everything,
You're the emptiness the whole world sings at night...
There are no stars in London. Light pollution eliminates everything that could possibly be meaningful about the stars, creating a downcast, yellowy-tinged sky that barely suffices as a form of night. There's a moon, bright as ever, and a couple specks dotted here and there, stars in the same way that... a couple shrubs, after much screwing with the definition, could possibly be called a forest.
Some of them are satellites, or passing aircraft. Or, possibly, the condensation of the belief the mind has in stars, forming an imaginary percept.
So it's best not to look up.
There are no stars in London.
Who the hell are you?
You're the laziness of afternoon,
You're the reason why I burst and why I bloom...
...I guess... I'll never know.
Think. Think, damnit.
You know that feeling you get, when you want to look up, because you think that something's there, and you spend hours deliberating whether anything's really anywhere to begin with... and when you finally look up, there's nothing there?
You know that feeling you get, when you feel like you're completely out of sync with some universal oscillation, and that's why you can't get a hold of anything?
What if, the time it takes for you to look up, is exactly the same as the time it takes for the thing to disappear? Imagine two people, constantly turning around to face each other at exactly opposing moments, never catching a glimpse of each other's face, holding the consistent belief that neither is actually looking to begin with.
Two waves in antiphase, cancelling each other out.
Or maybe... the other person just doesn't exist. Sometimes the simplest explanation is the best... right?
It's best not to look up.
There is nothing in London.
You're the leaky sink of sentiment,
You're the failed attempts I never could forget,
You're the metaphors I... can't create to comprehend this curse that I call love...
Who are you?
You're the echoes of my everything,
You're the emptiness the whole world sings at night...
There are no stars in London. Light pollution eliminates everything that could possibly be meaningful about the stars, creating a downcast, yellowy-tinged sky that barely suffices as a form of night. There's a moon, bright as ever, and a couple specks dotted here and there, stars in the same way that... a couple shrubs, after much screwing with the definition, could possibly be called a forest.
Some of them are satellites, or passing aircraft. Or, possibly, the condensation of the belief the mind has in stars, forming an imaginary percept.
So it's best not to look up.
There are no stars in London.
Who the hell are you?
You're the laziness of afternoon,
You're the reason why I burst and why I bloom...
...I guess... I'll never know.
Think. Think, damnit.
You know that feeling you get, when you want to look up, because you think that something's there, and you spend hours deliberating whether anything's really anywhere to begin with... and when you finally look up, there's nothing there?
You know that feeling you get, when you feel like you're completely out of sync with some universal oscillation, and that's why you can't get a hold of anything?
What if, the time it takes for you to look up, is exactly the same as the time it takes for the thing to disappear? Imagine two people, constantly turning around to face each other at exactly opposing moments, never catching a glimpse of each other's face, holding the consistent belief that neither is actually looking to begin with.
Two waves in antiphase, cancelling each other out.
Or maybe... the other person just doesn't exist. Sometimes the simplest explanation is the best... right?
It's best not to look up.
There is nothing in London.
You're the leaky sink of sentiment,
You're the failed attempts I never could forget,
You're the metaphors I... can't create to comprehend this curse that I call love...
Who are you?
Saturday, October 31, 2009
Smoke and Mirrors.
And this city is endless...
I'm as cold as its stone...
Yeah... this city is endless,
And I'm, I'm walking... alone...
It's a bright day, the sky's visible for a change, and somewhere down the road you can hear children laughing. Autumn afternoons aren't normally this quiet, and you swear you've managed to go about a half hour without hearing a blaring honk or siren.
The roads are strangely empty. All around you, people are walking, and you measure their pace, because that's what walkers do. They're at least two footsteps ahead of you, about double your speed. You feel like the guy walking in slo-mo as the city moves around him in super time-lapse, like in one of those documentaries about civilisation. Before you know it, it's dark out.
Autumn's a bit of a bitch.
It's not that dark - the sun's just beginning to set - so you decide to walk over to a park for a sit-down. It's the unsettling hour, the point between twilight and dusk where the light goes slightly dim, and you can watch the night arrive. Streetlamps flicker on - a move that you're sure goes against every power saving movement you've heard about. The park's still pretty crowded, a couple of people, sure, but just enough to break the silence. The birds are almost all gone, and there's a soft rustling of leaves in the evening breeze. You wait till everyone else is gone.
You shiver.
The nearest bench is empty - you take that. Cold starts creeping in almost instantly. The light is going out, the last embers fading with the sunset, and even though the dark is intangible, it wraps you with a chill. You swear it dropped at least two degrees in a second.
You shiver.
Heading home is slow progress. The nights are getting colder. You waltz into your room, and look at the clock. Seven fifty-six.
You've been out four hours, and no one realized you were gone.
I'm as cold as its stone...
Yeah... this city is endless,
And I'm, I'm walking... alone...
It's a bright day, the sky's visible for a change, and somewhere down the road you can hear children laughing. Autumn afternoons aren't normally this quiet, and you swear you've managed to go about a half hour without hearing a blaring honk or siren.
The roads are strangely empty. All around you, people are walking, and you measure their pace, because that's what walkers do. They're at least two footsteps ahead of you, about double your speed. You feel like the guy walking in slo-mo as the city moves around him in super time-lapse, like in one of those documentaries about civilisation. Before you know it, it's dark out.
Autumn's a bit of a bitch.
It's not that dark - the sun's just beginning to set - so you decide to walk over to a park for a sit-down. It's the unsettling hour, the point between twilight and dusk where the light goes slightly dim, and you can watch the night arrive. Streetlamps flicker on - a move that you're sure goes against every power saving movement you've heard about. The park's still pretty crowded, a couple of people, sure, but just enough to break the silence. The birds are almost all gone, and there's a soft rustling of leaves in the evening breeze. You wait till everyone else is gone.
You shiver.
The nearest bench is empty - you take that. Cold starts creeping in almost instantly. The light is going out, the last embers fading with the sunset, and even though the dark is intangible, it wraps you with a chill. You swear it dropped at least two degrees in a second.
You shiver.
Heading home is slow progress. The nights are getting colder. You waltz into your room, and look at the clock. Seven fifty-six.
You've been out four hours, and no one realized you were gone.
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