Shaping the parties where we hide
I'm no Sherlock
But something tells me
Something happened last night
Chase that place where words don't matter
Tell the world you wish you had her
I'm no Sherlock
But I know
It's not the air, it's not the liquid
It's the people in the room
A common race of convicts
That takes place under the moon.
The world's not bad
I'm just as gone as you are
Maybe it's the wind
Maybe something that you said
But I've got goosebumps
And the fireball is getting to my head
Things make more sense when
You're the last to take the shot
I can hide in it again
But I'm no Sherlock
I'm not holding back
I'm just detached
You can't reach for
What isn't there
I think you see that
It's just a fact
Life's no more
Easy than it is fair.
I am a gritty human product
Borne of paranoia and deliberation;
Hearing voices, convincing myself they're in my head,
Then checking over my shoulder anyway.
Loving the night,
Falling for those I share it with,
But fearing it
When I'm at dark windows alone.
I am a bitter combination
Of "I've already exhausted that outlet"
And "It isn't worth finding a new one";
Arguing against both cynics and optimists,
Because regardless of what any of us think,
I'm still better at words than they are.
I am a committed loner;
Just as successful at describing
The agony of my own company,
As finding reasons why everyone else's is inferior.
I invite the world into my own,
With a smile and convenient anecdote,
Then euthanize the conversation
When I realize their opinions are only
Recycled from people actually worth meeting.
I am a smitten planner,
Reborn in lists and agendas
Until I realize what it actually takes
To turn "to-do" into "done".
I fall into my web of goals,
But reach for my wastebasket,
Because without paper, I'm just
Inaction without proof
That I'll accomplish something eventually.
I am a jittery mess;
A judgmental sober
With just enough alcohol in my system
To pretend that I am not actually
With or without other gritty human products
Crowding around me with
The same drink in their hands.
Sometimes, the words inside me are too much,
But I only want to share them with someone
Who matters to me as much as the words do.
The space where I was keeping them collapses,
And I'm staring at a pair of vacant eyes that has nothing to return.
So I can share, but I don't;
There is almost nothing as painful as
Giving bits of my soul away in sentences,
Then watching them land heard, but not listened to.
It's hard to believe that my point is still alive
When the sound dies so quickly.
I try to imagine that my pieces of honesty keep going
Until someone grabs them with an understanding
Past their surfaces of nouns and adjectives.
The words just keep expanding
Past the deaf mind I just wasted a confession on
And they dig and wander to some questioning soul
That at the very least enjoys the sound
Of someone asking the same big questions
And questioning the same little answers.
It's nothing equivalent to an actual conversation
But it's more than just being heard.
He's "right" even when he's wrong.
He's a cynical drinking song
Before I ask, the answer's no
Half-memorized verses that change
According to the situation.
I am decidedly neutral,
So that I can't disagree with myself;
I strain for progress.
To him, it's only change.
And he isn't change;
(That's the problem with progress.)
I am a cup of tea
Because it's raining.
He's just grumbling
For the same reason.
"I remember when I used to believe
those things too"
Believe what, though?
I'm just a neutral vessel
Making progress wherever I am.
If you're laughing at my hope,
Then I'm crying at your lack of it.
Is it something I don't know?
Teach me to feel your pain.
You don't have to be a child
To listen to the rain.
Nothing on my arms but half-light and rain
The sky is one foggy silver and the air is a cold beverage that
Feels good going down my lungs.
Adrenaline floods out pain, rain floods the road
Jasmine flowers color my consciousness.
My music multiplies it.
It is the weather,
Cars pass, and I smile every time on the inside
Because they're going somewhere to get there,
And I'm going somewhere just to go.
It is not about the thinking, the organizing, the plans.
It is not contained in achievement, nor in distance.
It is in the way the music of the storm
Adds thunder to the drums of my music;
In the way the flash flood streams
Sing more powerfully than any lyricist
And in the roar of a car that pushes by,
Tire treads brushing the pavement with the sticky sound of speed
I neither have nor want.
I am bundled by the atmosphere,
Cloaked in soaked-soil perfumes that smell something like
Independence and childhood innocence in one bottle.
My knowledge is
One unit mindset of blissful fulfillment
Absent of the petty, of worry, and of the concept of time
Seeping out of a bucket I can not maintain.
Where am I?
Somewhere in between "I've started my stopwatch"
And "it stopped raining, so I will too".
I'm in the middle of "right place at the right time";
The kind of moment that my head and heart
Agree on committing to fond memory,
Without my consciousness even realizing it.
I'm not reaching for the sky;
I'm baring my arms to the shower
Like holding an ice cube in the summer,
Pressing my cheek to a window,
Adding spearmint to an old recipe,
Or putting on lotion in the winter.
I am not here;
I am everywhere.
As far as I can see, smell, and hear,
I am there.
Then eventually, I remember.
I neither fall nor rise to consciousness, but return
Like waking up in the morning,
Already preferring the sunshine to my pillow.
Some notes on my ten-day stay in Beantown:
People I Met:
"Just because they brought you into the world, doesn't make it your responsibility to believe in theirs."
"I've been sober for 19--almost 20--years."
"That's a long time."
"I don't like to think of it that way; I take it one day at a time."
-Conversation with the grandfather
"Just because it's aesthetic, doesn't mean it's quality."
-Mission team member
"Keep asking yourself, 'Am I proud of my work?'. When you can say yes, you can start charging. Even when you aren't making money, call it a business."
-Mission team member
I seek out predictability and pattern for comfort-- everything else to me is chaos--so it makes no sense that I am restless in pattern, but uncomfortable outside of it as I endlessly try to organize life into routines that I despise. I'm obsessive about the very structure that I hate.
-Realization on my flight to Boston
Travel is meditation; movement made soothing not by destination, but by discovery.
I want to be more than I am.
I am inspired by the greatest who make their greatness seem achievable.
I am inspired to see a piece of myself expressed thoroughly by someone else,
Inspired to see the inexpressible finally clothed by some type of art.
I am inspired to grow exponentially; to become something better than myself.
I'm inspired to inspire.