Your gospel interpretation is syncopathetic. It vibrates through the atmospheric chamber-barrier and compels the nuns to seek. Popes surround me with disapproving hand gestures. Erotic priests are peering from the bushes at all our current innocence vessels, who prance through the grass with tattered pants. Your proverbs are translucent and your sermons challenge the masses to ever higher levels of low self-worth. Hilarious anti-preachers are flogging the airwaves with strategic sarcasm and there is no way to stop it. Your scripture interpretation is idio-empathic. It bends your guilt-mechanisms and instills an urge to smoke cigarettes. Prudish smilers own the streets and determine the nature of television advertisements. Mutated anger floods all of your exchanges with the lower classes.
That's the trouble with falling in love with a musician. Not the late nights, or the people that want to be with you, none of the things that you worried would bother me. It's the the fact that I can't listen to anything without thinking of you. Without wondering whether at some point you've sat and listened to this song too. Without thinking about the nights I've spent watching you sing your feelings to a room of strangers and then gone home together just to sit on the couch and listen to the songs that helped make us who we are. Wondering how one could be so private and the other could not. Standing in a dark room, watching you nervously throw all of your feelings out there for the world to feel with you. Wondering if any of it was meant just for me.
Why is everyone so afraid of blame? We avoid blame, and clammer for credit. We take the blame, and give the credit. We depricate and inflate. We're little balloon people. One day we're slipping through the grate, the next day we can't fit through the door. Depression is a nemesis, it's not a biochemical flaw. It's garbage you forgot to take out. It's a dentist appointment when you haven't seen a dentist in a decade. If we take the blame, eventually we can take the credit. If we credit the blame we'll give the credit. Fuck. That makes no sense. It's confusing. But it's not my fault. I have Confusion. It's not my fault. Confusion is an illness. It's genetic. My parents were confused, too. Both of them. I give them credit, though. They didn't blame me for their confusion. They gave me credit for blaming the disease. But, now, that makes no sense, either.
The longer we drove the more we became lost. The trees grew thicker and the road became thinner. We had driven too far this time and we had taken way too many detours. Even if we decided to turn around and head home, we would've still been lost. We had no idea where we were going. The plan was to take the truck out for a simple spin but we didn't expect the countryside to be this big. I told my friend who was driving to ask for directions but he refused. I looked at the signs on the road and told him he was going the wrong way, but he didn't listen. There was no way we were gonna be able to find our way back now that it had gotten completely dark. So we just slept in the truck until the next day I found myself on a hospital bed, severely injured. Luckily, my friend was ok and he seemed really excited to see me for some reason. He said he was so happy they found me alive after all this time. I looked at him confused and asked him what happened to us after we got lost. He then looked at me confused. "Us? You mean to tell me, the day before you suddenly disappeared you were with someone else?" I told him he and I were taking the truck for a spin and we got lost, but he said he couldn't recall that ever happening.
You wrote a song once, about sitting in parking lots. About being young, drunk, and alone. About friendship and sadness. About the youth that we all have to leave behind. We talked about it one night, and you came to see that that song meant a little more to me that you'd first expected. I'm not sure if you were surprised because you can't fathom me feeling that way, or because you simply thought you were the only one. My life has changed, and the wild winds of my youth have blown me in all directions. I'm not a kid in a parking lot today, but sometimes I wish I still was. There's a certain kind of simplicity in the silence, a certain kind of understanding that comes from that kind of sadness. I told you I'd never want to go back to those days, but I think I was wrong. I sit alone still, older, in my own space, drinking tea, and stress is still tugging on my face. And in these quiet moments, I wish I could go back to those moments, if only to see if I could meet you there.