Like music, like a string of notes or vivid words of passion, I feel something inside. A jumbled speech, a wonderful monologe or a symphony. Only I have no tounge, and no hands to play. I know the words are there, but I am not. Or I am, bu the words aren't. I wonder what it means to know what you want and have what you should.
Music and writing are so sweet to me. Of all I could think of that mean something, these are like two lost friends who always come back to me when I come back to them. I haven't played in so long. Nor have I written. I've been in college for just over a year, and my schooling has, to date, delayed my education. Thank you, Uncle Mark Twain.
It feels like death and it feels like life all at the same times. It hurts and it heals. I see so many angles, see so many ways and perceptions and I wonder all at the same time which I own. I see the hurt. I hear the songs. I touch the money, If feel the longing. The strains of love and the pursuit of happiness all call, the hope and the lost, the pain and the cost and somewhere in the middle am I. If I could only put it all right, if the sound my heart made was plain not only to me, but to someone else. I want to know the truth behind what I think could be. I feel capable of being more than what I am, and still never attaining beyond what I was yesterday. How can that be? That potential always sits vacant? How long will my supposed ability remain unearthed, even by me? The life that I thought was before me; do these things happen, will they eventually take flight, or am I only on pace to uncover one day, older, wiser, but a bit sadder, that I truely was never more than this that I am today, and what I could have been is indeed only a former possibility. I think of what could have been different, what may still be different, for the good or better or perhaps worse. I am here, healthy and whole to the eye but something is broken in me. I call it the sting of delayed gratification. The promise of a second marshmallow... if I will but wait. I have waited and I have worked, and what has not come to me has fallen to the esteemed undeserving, (or perhaps only ignorant), and in the mess of the promise I find myself wanting; wanting in character, for every flaw of my own is seen in the mirror and the dark voice tells me of my own failing and unbearable consequenses. A promise of perfection, the truth of bitter shortcomings which I fall prey to, and wonder yet again if mercy will rise with the dawn.
Days slide by with weary familiarity, a tune I have harmonized with, and it leaves me wanting. Sad songs that I onced played for the love they shared from one heart to another, now a folly, transparant in thier simplicity of ignorance. For what could have been was not what it was, and what it was should have been different. This world is uncaring to who it will be. Love truly is not a victory march, but some cold and broken hallalujah, like a refrain from a harmonica in a empty hall where there should be dancing and string to fill the air. I wonder what can fill the void I see to fill, and I, a gaping wound that I cover and keep at home. It finds me, it finds me when step into a room alone and when the lights go out. I don't know how to explain it, not a fear or a problem, just a fact that I own and it owns me.
To music I compare, for to music I have a friendship. The love of art of the strings and words. Latin and chords, things I don't understand. I am one thing when I am with them. I am the same thing with a few wonderful people. I am just another for the most part, to the rest, to me. And to no loss, for I am not sadly misunderstood or playing the martyr; but the facts are that some lose, some win, and the race is not to swift or the battle to the strong. Either way I feel disadvantaged, and whatever prospect of hope there is isn't very good. Some get some, some get it all, some get none, and some get it all, some or none at different times. The very yellow leaves on the very green grass, with the tall brown sticks and flames of orange and red strike me as beautiful, still it is hard to see the summer give up its last breath and a new season mercilessly roll on...growth has come and gone again, and I wonder where my piece was. Or have I tasted and taken all? Why does hate sometimes spring up, the conscience and the devil inside of me clash, war break out, want and rage flail and scream? Who am I if within me can sides can be taken? What can change the way I feel? Travel and adventure still call to me with a haunting wanderlust, and I itch to walk the earth, roll down the road with my only purpose something I am still looking for - so I wander, I look for that missing piece to change this something normal into something beautiful; within nature, within another person, within needs met and hope fulfilled; with things better.
I am still seaching. Within my wake, I believe I will find and partake in what I cannot see right now. I got a question, one that I cannot even find words for, one that is as deep as the meaning of life for man...and I love this search for what we are.
Jars. Silence.
Take
Take till there's nothing
Nothing to turn to
Nothing when you get through
Won't you break
Scattered pieces of all I've been
Bowing to all I've been
Running to
Where are you?
Where are you?
Did you leave me unbreakable?
You leave me frozen?
I've never felt so cold
I thought you were silent
And I thought you left me
For the wreckage and the waste
On an empty beach of faith
Was it true?
Cuz I...I got a question
I got a question
Where are you?
Scream
Deeper I wanna scream
I want you to hear me
I want you to find me
Cuz I...I want to believe
But all I pray is wrong
And all I claim is gone
And I...I got a question
I got a question
Where are you?
Yeah....yeah
And where...I...I got a question
I got a question
Where are you?
Where are you?
Where are you?
Where are you?
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