All Alone On A Monday Morning...

Currently Listening To // Almost Doesn't Count // Brandy

Almost made you happy, babe, didn't I, didn't I?

Imagine taking the last drag of your last cigarette, letting the pungent smoke swirl inside your lungs, and exhaling slowly, savouring each moment, mindful that what feels good now might just kill you later...

Then imagine swallowing the last of your Corona, tasting the bitter lemon, reminding you that although your liver may not, your tastebuds will survive the next day...which is a small consolation since you probably can't taste what you want to ever again.

Finally, imagine extinguishing the cigarette, crushing the butt against the hard steel tray until the last of the embers are smoking, and all that remains is a filter of painful memories mixed with tinges of regret. Discarded, useless to everything and itself...

If you're unhappy, you write...

So I'm writing.

Almost heard you saying, you were finally free...

The hard thing about writing when you're emotional is focussing on a topic. I guess that's another reason why I listen to music...channeling my emotions through a song, I amplify what I'm feeling to a crescendo, focussing it like a ray of sunlight through a magnifying glass. The result? If I get it just right, a release an outburst of energy that is so therapeutic and feels so good. If I get it wrong, then it's just random song lines inserted between random thoughts. It takes me a lot of effort to get it just so, but when you're as hung over as I am, your vision of what you think is right is never really what is real...

I can't keep on loving you one foot outside the door...

Does this mean that I only write when I'm unhappy? But I feel good when I write, right? Perhaps I'm nacissitic in that way; everything has a ying and yang to it. The ideas we use, the objects we create, the thoughts we construct, all can be used for good or for ill. Science is the greatest saviour and scourge on humanity at the same time, but God gave us the choice to make our own decisions. A knife can cut you accidently, but stabbing and twisting it in someone else takes that extra effort. No mistakes there.

I hear a funny hesitation of a heart that's never really sure...

Just like this post...I could start a fire within me to propel me out of my sorrow, give me a shot of pain to make me sit up and focus. But right now I'm burning a scar on myself that I can't remove and that will probably never stop hurting. No one is baggage free at this age, everyone's hurt, everyone's been hurt, everyone's guilty. Emotional infidelity stabs deeper than any knife could, while jealousy, anger and pride hold the blade in there and twist it over and over; salty tears fall on an open wound.

But every time you build me up, you only let me down...

I'm a weak person sometimes; I know this. I know what's good for me, I'm a grown person. But as I've said ad infinitum, we make our decisions on what we felt was right at the time, and if it turns out to be wrong, then living with the consequences is something you have to deal with.

Over drinks the other night, it was agreed that I need to be 80-90% sure before I actually make an effort. On anything. Like transplanting a plant, if you pull it out without the roots, then no good can come of it; that's how I think. You've got to take things as a whole, no half measures.

I guess sometimes planting an idea in the soil isn't enough. If the roots from another tree aren't cleared, then they'll tangle and destroy the new plant, no matter how carefully you've planted it. A tree can either bloom, provide shade and bear fruit, or it can remain barren forever. No half measures. And what is a tree that bears no fruit? Fuel for the cold fires of sorrow and regret; smoke that blinds us and leaves behind the smell of mistrust. Best to not even think about such things.

But as I said, I'm weak. You know this. Because you can see me burning in the distance.

That's the way it goes...almost doesn't count...