I don’t have any regrets, but if it were up to me, nobody would.
Sometimes, we take broken bits of brick and make up our minds based on the crude patterns they produce when strewn about a room.
Whether or not you have a guitar hanging on your wall, you are, within you, an artist. At very least, an artisan of your own invention. Of the great design.
At every stop and turn, every thought or fear, every awkward interaction and unwanted physical touch, you are taken away from your art. Led away by the hand.
Does the thought hurt more than the act itself? Therein lies a clue to the great unmystery, vulgar made-up language disguising a fault line in communication. How many times have you thought to yourself, “I can do that,” only to have the Cummings pulled out from under you.
Silence and mystery have no place in this world as long as they’re around. As long as they’re in charge. Who asketh, is given. Take as much as you want; you’re still going to feel that emptiness when you open your eyes in the morning.
We have determined that talent and integrity will get you noplace. People are going places, and they’re not taking buses to get there. Part of a devilish little insider’s club, ham-fisted lobster claws shuffling paper statements.
This could well be the end of an era, but what couldn’t?
To whittle it all down to a time and place is a hefty task, indeed, and you will see that those who are up to it are true to its weight. The pale, thin, wiry ones are left standing ankle-deep in streams of paint, strings in hand and rich voices expanding in air.
When sung, the heart takes on a new rhythm - a bloodier one. Hard to hear unless you’re listening.
When I met you, I didn’t think it would be the last time we spoke, but rather, the first. It was one of those meetings that I tried to run away from, abandoned hundreds of times in the few seconds preceding it. Not much was said but the look of truth is all any of us really wants. To lock eyes with the Devil or whoever our Gods may be. To see truth as human and art as eternal. Though we are afraid, it’s a pointless tactical error as there is nothing to fear.
No life worth loving is built on a construct of any sort; rather, it floats across a white sky, unbidden.
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