Sunday, December 2, 2007

my cousin heather has a brain tumor. terminal case. she is 23.

we saw the same thing but it meant two different things to each of us.
juxtaposition of morals or something like that. big pretentious words don't get you anywhere, you know.
now comes the line where i talk about something actually going in my own life. it's become too predictable to my own brain. the format is fitting. insane.
people are not how they are in your mind. keep that safe in your chest. they are not the face on the baseball card or the hand that wrote those words or that swagger that carries them safely across the board they've laid out. they are not what they say or what they do, they are what they are, and even when you think you've got that, it's in your head so it's wrong, wrong, wrong. let someone explain themselves. but even they've got it wrong. everyone's got everyone in the wrong way, no one's perception is crystal clear. not a single soul. sometimes you get half the image, sometimes the inside or outside turns out focused. but the dark side of the moon is still a mystery no matter how many guesses we make about it.
what we express is a guess. a shot at what could be brewing in that opaque pot. lid glued shut, no one'll ever understand what made it boil over. art is just thoughts put into a brush, a pen, a pick. heart sneaks in when the thoughts stop making sense, need something to fill in the grey areas.

forget the rest of the world. they don't know what they're talking about. no one does. you can explore the depths of a subject, dive into it, immerse yourself in its mass, take up the cross it provides you with. hell, you can understand a thing to its frayed edges on the end of the universe, spend your eighty years of life boring eyes into its heart, but once that happens, god, you've become it. and it's so hard to explain yourself. you can't talk about it. you've done yourself into this dedication, losing sight of what you most wanted to do in the process. lost causes all around, kid, i'm paying for the pessimism.

"is this too simple of a subject for a metaphor?"
fucking lord, kid, it's far too complex for anyone to understand it. the author included.
the lines in the songs are only put there to make you sing along and feel like you belong.
everything else is an accident.


i realized there was something messed in my head when i stopped understanding why people who weren't famous mattered at all.
that shook ground.