Friday, March 6, 2009

Fly Pretty Bird, Into A Windshield

Ladies and gentlemen prepare yourself for what is most likely going to be the bumpiest of rides. We are drinking to forget about the taste, and hopefully avoiding all imploding egos as this inevitable drift starts and stops once the first click of the track echoes upward. We are passing by previous shades of our former selves, those that were stuck or halted by one of life's less than complimentary moods, and instead feeling the breeze as it thins around us.
What's that you say? You're not ready for this kind of illusive spin yet? It isn't time to forget, but rather remember how and why and when and where and what in the hell we were all thinking.
Well fuck you for being this way. You know who you are. So deeply rooted in new ideas or at least the recycled regurgitation of past ones, but at the same time, lacking any substantial motivation to critique yourself in this bubble. You expect for us to stop whenever you start to feel nauseous, to simply hang upside down in the middle of loop and look at the distorted faces of friends from the past and simply understand that you're not ready for the slips to continue.
You call us too adventurous, and yet hate yourself for not enjoying life enough. You judge the perfect before yourself, and will never understand why you won't ever get past this feeling of absolute melancholy. You let the fickle branches and thorns from your fingers pierce those around you, to the point where they hate the same things, and rely on the same disappointments.
You never stop to think about leaning forward to make the car go faster, and this is why we don't talk to each other anymore, and no one says anything about it simply because they know themselves well enough to understand where they fit. We used to feel sorry for each other, but now we just let it fly straight into the space around us. But let there be no mistakes made about this incoming ride, this rocket of thought. It has nothing to do with you, and yet we can't help but feel the smallest sense of satisfaction in knowing that it will be yet another reason for you to hate yourself.


My Idea of Fun said...

woah. i don't know what to say about this. it's intense as shit. we all have prickly thorns on our fingers. i think.

My Idea of Fun said...

email me abut this, please.