not-me-011107.mp3 (original)
it-should-be-said-17915.mp3 (a friend’s mix)
(thanks to a friend, a creative commons remix at: Splicemusic as well!)
hit up ‘more’ for the text…
this post is not about me.
life, it seems, is all about you. each of you. all of you. the only time anything good happens, it has to do with you. the only time there is success, it is because of you. the only time benefit is found, given, or created, it is due to and thanks to you.
so much of what is here is not about you. but truly, it is all about you. there is no frame of reference in which to talk about you but the generic, and you are far too special for generics. so instead…
but even then, especially then, it is about you.
all the contradictions and misery and running in the labyrinth and falling and getting up again and immediately falling once more… and still stagging to the feet and continuing… every bit of it is about you. always. in all ways. forever and ever, amen.
it never seems that way, does it? it always seems to be enveloped and encased in something that is very much not you.
it always looks like… oh… can that list of adjectives and adverbs possibly fit? every pitiful, awful, flawed possibility, they are all here. they strut. they preen. they shout loud words at brick walls that have long since been limed in spittle.
but even then, it is about you. shadowboxing to figure out how to find you. how to reach you. how to really touch you. how to be more like you. how to stop hurting you. how to stop the instinctive aggression. how to be.
there is frustration and anger for all the ways it seems impossible to do any of it. to ever deserve you. any of you. all of you.
the words scroll and stroll and sprawl and tussle and bruise and strike and kick and bite and snarl and moan and sigh and scream… whisper and plead and promise and shun and swear and curse and stutter and stab and search and search and search and never find.
all the letters, structure, semantics, syntax, all the stupid stumbling attempts, all the stanzas and seizures and shudders and staccatos and still, no more able to as much as see.
sometimes in the silence. sometimes. sometimes you are there. shimmer of sawdust, amber motes drifting on waves of heat running to chill.
are there really words to say the things that should be said? so many moments when what must be said are lightening in the desert, sudden burst of rawness that only blasts the ground. you are not there.
is silence severe? no. it is serene. which is why it so rarely finds this place. and why you are distant.
mirrors within mirrors, the flickering image of all of the yous just over the horizon, just beyond the vanishing point. just.
the sense of you is forever apart. and the sense that is supposed to be is like salt in the core.
should it need to be said that all this silly shuffling, shambling, and searching is for you? perhaps so. it is the one thing unsaid most often, and in that, surely, conviction.
for what it is worth, it is always about you. you and you and you, too. each of you. all of you. even if the best that is ever managed is an arrogant surliness.
there is not enough skill to overcome all the faults. stuck. stranded. striving, but subsumed.
sorry just doesn’t change a thing. still. it should be said.
i am sorry.