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It all just felt so dull sometimes
Uninspired and too common place
That I’d do anything it took
To convince them otherwise
Mixed up I believed fire could walk on water
Then became the fool to my own dirty tricks
Until she told me the eye of the sea
Could never be lost or found, but that
It was always there, brilliant and dazzling
And that, it was waiting inside of me
Perhaps I’ve said too little,
perhaps I’ve said too much.
Whichever be the case Fante,
perhaps I’ll Ask The Dust.
Then you wake up
Eyes glazed open
Sleeping by her side
And again, you realize
What’s most important
Now more than ever
And without a doubt
Like the sun, you rise
What I’ll never have answers for
Happened in the split of a second
And broke me for a lifetime in two
I can pick up the pieces sometimes
Mostly I have the strength, except
These other sometimes when
It all comes pouring out, when words
Make sense just enough to suffer again
A little less each time, though time
Time is often wearing me veil thin—
Like a dusting of snow covers ice—
I’m that unsuspecting victim
Trudging through a never ending dreamscape
Sidestepping, cautious through life
There’s always a story to tell.
Always,
A story…
To tell—
I’ll always remember that day
And keep it as a reminder—
That day in which you looked my way
And I didn’t have a clue who you were
And you didn’t have a clue who I was
That day in which our eyes told stories—
As to what is most important.
So if and when we lose our way, I know
Together we’ll find ourselves again—
Where eyes can say what words cannot express—
And stories, we, can only tell together.
Whatever’s in my head, is there because I put it there.
It’s there because I allow it to be.
Whatever’s in yours, is yours—I’ve no idea, nor should.
If you’re curious, you may ask and I may tell you whatever’s in my head.
I may not, though that is up to me, as it is equally up to you.
So if and when I seem distant, it’s only because I’m having an internal debate on which to share.
I’m deliberately choosing words which may or may not have an impact on your own definition of me—of you.
Whatever’s in my head may change, in fact, depending on your point of view, so tread however you will when speaking, knowing that—
Whatever’s in your head, is there because we put it there.
And we being a positive or a negative really doesn’t matter.
What matters is, matter of factly null and void, more likely because,
whatever’s in your head, is there because you put it there.
It’s there because it is, if it wasn’t then, well, we wouldn’t be having this discussion with ourselves to begin with.
See. When two people interact or share in a discussion, it’s not simply a yes or no dialogue.
It’s not simply an A and B conversation but rather an (A,(B)) + (C,(D)) process of beliefs which often can be tricky or seem unfair.
And the more you think about it, the less there is to say, because, more times than not it’s what we don’t say that often really matters.
Perhaps I haven’t found the correct words, or perhaps I’m overthinking, perhaps I’m just learning how to communicate all together on a daily.
It’s like casting a line of bate to water. If the intended fish decides to bite, then it’s fair game, but when the intended fish is forced to bite, which for lack of a better metaphor, one can’t exactly force a fish to bite, then there’s an unfair advantage.
The bate is not merely physical bate, but encompasses the mind from which it’s cast with hope, fear, and determination—etc and so on.
The fish may rationalize it’s right to choose feast or famine, ultimately accepting it’s fate regardless of the line cast, by choice of internal and external response, which leads me back to my original point being…
Whatever’s in my head, is there because I put it there.
It’s there because I’ve reserved a rationality for it, and, regardless of the outcome, it’s necessary solely to me.
Further more, what’s necessary to me—perhaps the real point here—is not, nor should be expected to be necessary to you.
Any questions?
Most things can’t be unsaid,
though in my heart—
under the mess I’ve made—they
can be understood, in time
with patience and surrender.
I’ll always surrender.
I just haven’t got the skin,
I just haven’t got the heart
not to know better.
I don’t need a fan
or a fawn, I need a fire—
Hot and Wild—black as coal,
as clean as a diamond
dazzling
in the mud of my soul.
Funny, how a song
sung over the years
can seem, so foreign
even to me, with a chorus
not even I can relate to
any longer than it takes
to finish the mornings
cup of coffee, spilled
to form a Rorschach Test
no longer necessary
to indulge or engage,
just enjoying the view
from a bridge overseas.
Words Of An Average White Male 