If I could give all
Sunday Morning:
Wrapped in a long towel and torsoed in a fraying wooly jumper, a tattered baseball cap sideways on his head, he is sitting on the veranda outside a messy house sipping at a mug of Good African Coffee, engrossed in the vigorous effort of trying to validate his stupid ass.
You see, the poor guy was both blessed and burdened with a restless mind, the kind that cannot resist obsession and yet is repulsed by the easy and the obvious.
Restlessness is my nemesis.
Sometimes I look on my achievements and appropriations, and say “I am a giant.”
Then at night, I look in the mirror and I am five-eight, weighing a buck fifty.
This morning it is cold. I didn’t sleep last night. My house is a mess. I am short and skinny.
Told you I was stupid.
Because none of that is true. Even I don’t know what my real size is— I am everywhere I have ever been; I am here now, I am then and I am everything I will ever be— Is that a good thing? Is that something to be proud of? Should I be ashamed? Depends on where I've been and where I'm going, I guess.
Sunday morning, I don't know where I'm going.
Then there is a sudden power cut. Game Over, by Dr Dre and Scarface, from ‘Face’s 1997 album Untouchable, had been on the CD player. Now murder and death, that had been tumbling out of the door onto my back, sharply ceases, and the house behind falls abruptly silent.
The day has returned. Time to go get a shower in, put on some clothes and go into the town. There are things to do.
Places I need to be going to.
Monday night:
I never lied, I never said those things! You lied! You lied to yourself, and then you lied to me with those lies; you made me believe that you believed me!
Now that the truth comes out, I am the bad guy?
Why do I feel guilty when I tell people I am not in love with them?
Monday night? I am small and brittle and light.
Wrapped in a long towel and torsoed in a fraying wooly jumper, a tattered baseball cap sideways on his head, he is sitting on the veranda outside a messy house sipping at a mug of Good African Coffee, engrossed in the vigorous effort of trying to validate his stupid ass.
You see, the poor guy was both blessed and burdened with a restless mind, the kind that cannot resist obsession and yet is repulsed by the easy and the obvious.
Restlessness is my nemesis.
Sometimes I look on my achievements and appropriations, and say “I am a giant.”
Then at night, I look in the mirror and I am five-eight, weighing a buck fifty.
This morning it is cold. I didn’t sleep last night. My house is a mess. I am short and skinny.
Told you I was stupid.
Because none of that is true. Even I don’t know what my real size is— I am everywhere I have ever been; I am here now, I am then and I am everything I will ever be— Is that a good thing? Is that something to be proud of? Should I be ashamed? Depends on where I've been and where I'm going, I guess.
Sunday morning, I don't know where I'm going.
Then there is a sudden power cut. Game Over, by Dr Dre and Scarface, from ‘Face’s 1997 album Untouchable, had been on the CD player. Now murder and death, that had been tumbling out of the door onto my back, sharply ceases, and the house behind falls abruptly silent.
The day has returned. Time to go get a shower in, put on some clothes and go into the town. There are things to do.
Places I need to be going to.
Monday night:
I never lied, I never said those things! You lied! You lied to yourself, and then you lied to me with those lies; you made me believe that you believed me!
Now that the truth comes out, I am the bad guy?
Why do I feel guilty when I tell people I am not in love with them?
Monday night? I am small and brittle and light.
If I could give all my love to you
I would justify myself,
you're a pill to ease the pain of all the stupid things I do
posted by cavalier at 11:41 AM
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