So, it seems that little lightning bug,
Hiding in the cavern of my lantern,
has flown off,’
To be with the summer night,
To leave me alone with the painful rebirth,
That only spring can bring.
Where to go?
Those dry paths that used to know my voice,
Have been washed away and overgrown.
Do I have the strength left within me to traverse the wild terrain?
I am young, indeed.
I should be vigorous.
But I am also old.
My mind has seen more,
Visited more thoughts,
Than most of these men crowding me could ever imagine.
And that cynicism,
The scar of time,
Is setting in.
Through the music and whispers from a soul that shares a part of my lens,
A path arises.
Out of all the something that chokes with malice,
A line of nothingness comes as a savior.
It’s now or never.
Isn’t it always?
Oh, my Lord a’comin’,
Flyin’ down to sweep me up.
Oh my Father a’comin,
Gonna save me from myself.
Rainin’ down on me,
Oh my Lord a’comin’,
Gonna save myself from sin.
Look to your left and your right.
Those are your comrades,
This is your scene.
This is home,
The meaning of the word is right here.
Which is to say,
You are not alone.
We are united.
We, we, we.
Leaving one with a cold realization,
Of not enough blankets.
So as to grab onto someone that isn’t there.
Loneliness is the result of your heart leaping out towards another,
With no gentle hands to catch him.
We are not united. We are a plethora of isolated islands. We trick ourselves into thinking that anything will bring us into the same place as another human being, whether through lofty ideals or gratuitous sex or the elevation fo the mind through drugs. These are all clever tricks, but tricks none-the-less. We invented a giant invisible friend that everyone could have, had to have, so as to keep the illusion going. “It isn’t fair that he can live without our friend.” What to do without another soul, crossing over with yours? Not much can be done, with or without. The trip is just more pleasant with another set of eyes that looks with you and not at you. But luckily for us, we are all a multiplicity, a crowd living behind one set of eyes. Malkovich, forreal. Where do we get our hope then? I’ll let you in on a secret: “It doesn’t matter one bit if you hope in science or God or nothingness, cause the truth of it all is that you just gotta latch onto something out there, and pretend like the universe looks like it points to it. You have to pretend that that thing matters more than anything. But don’t think on it too hard. Don’t venture into the night with your thoughts, because the more you start to look at your trophy, the more you see, it’s just gold-painted plastic. You start to see that it’s just like all those other sorts of things your swore off in its name. Hope. Is. Arbitrary. And. Necessary.