Showing posts with label dreams. Show all posts
Showing posts with label dreams. Show all posts
Sunday, 10 July 2011
I defaulted on my blog pact (with myself), got into a some trouble with a friend, singed a toe severely and pulled a muscle in the pelvic area, but the difference between doing what you have to do and doing what you like to do is the lack of any hesitation to do all of this every evening, wake up exhausted in the morning, and be excited about going to class.
I defaulted on my blog pact (with myself), got into a some trouble with a friend, singed a toe severely and pulled a muscle in the pelvic area, but the difference between doing what you have to do and doing what you like to do is the lack of any hesitation to do all of this every evening, wake up exhausted in the morning, and be excited about going to class.
Monday, 13 June 2011
When Kap Fynncraft woke up on Tuesday morning.
When Kap Fynncraft woke up on Tuesday morning, neither he nor anyone else knew that it would be different from any of the previous days. He walked to the bathroom, washed his face, brushed his teeth, had a bath, brewed some coffee, toasted some bread, boiled an egg, breakfasted, dressed up and locked the front door behind him. When he reached the last rung of the ladder he had to climb down, he seemed as if he forgot something, and climbed all the way back up. Wedged in the window grill above the first rung was a folded-up white sheet: the newspaper. He stuck it in his mouth and climbed back down. Adjusting his cap, he stood at the bus stop. It was 07.40.
As always, Chip Ramirez stood to his left, and as always, Ark Eiwen stood to Chip's left. They had nothing in particular to speak about, but a decade-old habit of waiting at the bus stop for 10 minutes in each other's presence made the silence anything but discomfiting. At 07.42 precisely, The Man In The Green Helmet would ride by on his scooter. A minute later, The Two Men With Their Briefcases would open the store on the other side of the street. Just as they reordered everything inside the shop and turned the sign to "Open", a red bus could be seen driving up and down the mounding road on the horizon. At 07.50, Kap, Chip and Ark boarded it.
The bus ride to the factory took precisely four minutes everyday because the amount of traffic between 07.50 and 07.54 was the same on any given day. In fact, the amount of traffic at any point of time was the same on any given day. In fact, nothing else about the city had changed in the last 10 years. As he rode the bus to the factory, he also knew nothing would ever change either because the smoke rising from the smelting factory a few miles in the northeast was always of the same hue, density and emotion. Sometimes, he'd look at it and wonder. Sometimes, he wouldn't look any way at all but the paper. Sometimes, he thought what it would be like to jump out of the bus onto the pavement and shatter his head. The telltale jerk brought him out of his reverie on that Tuesday morning, and a minute later, he alighted.
It was winter. The westward wind was strong and cold, unrelenting against his thin woollen shawl. He drew it tighter around himself, although it had never been of any help. But he'd had nothing else to complain about all year, and something like this was all that he had to keep himself from thinking of different ways to kill himself. He signed elaborately in the register, and as always the clerk looked up at him queerly. Before he went to his seat near the drill, he looked at the calendar. It was March 17, 2144. The celebrations were exactly a week away. Exactly 10 years ago, on March 24, 2134, the country officially declared it had nothing significant left to achieve. The standard of living was appreciable, nobody was poor, no wars seemed possible, diplomatic relations presented no challenges, research output had been steadied, diseases had been eradicated, consumption was regulated, the surplus was sold at fixed rates, the weather was shielded against, and state-sponsored festivals provided distraction from the melancholy.
Kap Fynncraft had been a journalist. When The Threshold was breached, he was reporting a story on a woman giving birth to quadruplets at the capital's government hospital. A few days later, he had been promoted to sub-editorship with the newspaper. A week later, there was nothing to go by except a repeated declaration of the government's accomplishments. A month later, the paper had shut down and he was forced to find work in one of the factories. A year later, in 2135, his wife died when she slipped on the ladder outside his door. He had tried to instigate a revolt in the factory: when they asked him what the problem was, he had said something about wages. The next day, he was arrested by the police. A few days later, he was forced to admit there was nothing he could do about it, and when he did admit it, he was released. When he went back to work, he found they'd also increased his wages. When he tried to look intimidating, they reminded him of his wife. "This is for you to spend as you wish, Mr. Fynncraft. We've a feeling you loved your wife very much."
At 16.00, he lined up near Gate 2. The queue for the bus was two labourers long, and he joined it as he always did as the third man. At 16.06, the bus started on its six-minute journey. On that Tuesday, it took more than an hour: just as they passed the Presidential Boulevard, they were stopped behind a few other buses, some cars, many cyclists, and what looked like an upside-down truck, its underside charred and smoking. Kap Fynncraft, somehow, had sunk back into a reverie. He would be home late today, dinner would be late, he'd have to eat as he watched the game tonight. He smiled. Maybe he'd annoy that old woman downstairs by walking around at 22.00. Maybe he'd miss the bus in the morning and hitch a ride. Maybe-
Before he knew it, the bus was on its way again. He could no longer see the plumes of smoke on the southwest, the inky blue of the late-evening sky had swallowed it in its entirety. The streetlamps were lighting themselves one by one, as if they knew Kap Fynncraft was coming, as if they knew he'd want to alight and, somehow, not want to break his head on the pavement on a night that involved a postponed dinner and an angry old woman. A moist film of water had condensed on the windows of the bus, and he waited by the door lest he missed his stop. Under the bright white glare of the streetlights, he could see the patterned tiling on the pavement whip by in the oblong shadow of the vehicle. He knew they were somewhere near his house, he remembered the hexagonal patterns from a terrible day when he had reached the bus stop early one morning and had decided to look down.
Black, white, black, white, black, white, black... the lines between the colours trapped his eyes, and he could feel himself moving through the Universe one coloured tile at a time.
As always, Chip Ramirez stood to his left, and as always, Ark Eiwen stood to Chip's left. They had nothing in particular to speak about, but a decade-old habit of waiting at the bus stop for 10 minutes in each other's presence made the silence anything but discomfiting. At 07.42 precisely, The Man In The Green Helmet would ride by on his scooter. A minute later, The Two Men With Their Briefcases would open the store on the other side of the street. Just as they reordered everything inside the shop and turned the sign to "Open", a red bus could be seen driving up and down the mounding road on the horizon. At 07.50, Kap, Chip and Ark boarded it.
The bus ride to the factory took precisely four minutes everyday because the amount of traffic between 07.50 and 07.54 was the same on any given day. In fact, the amount of traffic at any point of time was the same on any given day. In fact, nothing else about the city had changed in the last 10 years. As he rode the bus to the factory, he also knew nothing would ever change either because the smoke rising from the smelting factory a few miles in the northeast was always of the same hue, density and emotion. Sometimes, he'd look at it and wonder. Sometimes, he wouldn't look any way at all but the paper. Sometimes, he thought what it would be like to jump out of the bus onto the pavement and shatter his head. The telltale jerk brought him out of his reverie on that Tuesday morning, and a minute later, he alighted.
It was winter. The westward wind was strong and cold, unrelenting against his thin woollen shawl. He drew it tighter around himself, although it had never been of any help. But he'd had nothing else to complain about all year, and something like this was all that he had to keep himself from thinking of different ways to kill himself. He signed elaborately in the register, and as always the clerk looked up at him queerly. Before he went to his seat near the drill, he looked at the calendar. It was March 17, 2144. The celebrations were exactly a week away. Exactly 10 years ago, on March 24, 2134, the country officially declared it had nothing significant left to achieve. The standard of living was appreciable, nobody was poor, no wars seemed possible, diplomatic relations presented no challenges, research output had been steadied, diseases had been eradicated, consumption was regulated, the surplus was sold at fixed rates, the weather was shielded against, and state-sponsored festivals provided distraction from the melancholy.
Kap Fynncraft had been a journalist. When The Threshold was breached, he was reporting a story on a woman giving birth to quadruplets at the capital's government hospital. A few days later, he had been promoted to sub-editorship with the newspaper. A week later, there was nothing to go by except a repeated declaration of the government's accomplishments. A month later, the paper had shut down and he was forced to find work in one of the factories. A year later, in 2135, his wife died when she slipped on the ladder outside his door. He had tried to instigate a revolt in the factory: when they asked him what the problem was, he had said something about wages. The next day, he was arrested by the police. A few days later, he was forced to admit there was nothing he could do about it, and when he did admit it, he was released. When he went back to work, he found they'd also increased his wages. When he tried to look intimidating, they reminded him of his wife. "This is for you to spend as you wish, Mr. Fynncraft. We've a feeling you loved your wife very much."
At 16.00, he lined up near Gate 2. The queue for the bus was two labourers long, and he joined it as he always did as the third man. At 16.06, the bus started on its six-minute journey. On that Tuesday, it took more than an hour: just as they passed the Presidential Boulevard, they were stopped behind a few other buses, some cars, many cyclists, and what looked like an upside-down truck, its underside charred and smoking. Kap Fynncraft, somehow, had sunk back into a reverie. He would be home late today, dinner would be late, he'd have to eat as he watched the game tonight. He smiled. Maybe he'd annoy that old woman downstairs by walking around at 22.00. Maybe he'd miss the bus in the morning and hitch a ride. Maybe-
Before he knew it, the bus was on its way again. He could no longer see the plumes of smoke on the southwest, the inky blue of the late-evening sky had swallowed it in its entirety. The streetlamps were lighting themselves one by one, as if they knew Kap Fynncraft was coming, as if they knew he'd want to alight and, somehow, not want to break his head on the pavement on a night that involved a postponed dinner and an angry old woman. A moist film of water had condensed on the windows of the bus, and he waited by the door lest he missed his stop. Under the bright white glare of the streetlights, he could see the patterned tiling on the pavement whip by in the oblong shadow of the vehicle. He knew they were somewhere near his house, he remembered the hexagonal patterns from a terrible day when he had reached the bus stop early one morning and had decided to look down.
Black, white, black, white, black, white, black... the lines between the colours trapped his eyes, and he could feel himself moving through the Universe one coloured tile at a time.
Saturday, 11 June 2011
Not tonight, I'm working.
Did you know the hills have to wait when I'm playing?
Because I don't have the time to watch them grow.
Did you know the rain has to wait when I'm playing?
Because I don't have the time to watch it flow.
Did you know the match has to wait when I'm playing?
Because I don't have the time to watch it glow.
Did you know all the doors have to wait when I'm playing?
Because I don't have the time to shut them close.
Did you know the hills and the rain and the match
And the doors and the floors and the walls
Are so clean and praise not the blight of a scratch
Simply because I never played in their halls?
Because I don't have the time to watch them grow.
Did you know the rain has to wait when I'm playing?
Because I don't have the time to watch it flow.
Did you know the match has to wait when I'm playing?
Because I don't have the time to watch it glow.
Did you know all the doors have to wait when I'm playing?
Because I don't have the time to shut them close.
Did you know the hills and the rain and the match
And the doors and the floors and the walls
Are so clean and praise not the blight of a scratch
Simply because I never played in their halls?
Not tonight, I'm working.
Did you know the hills have to wait when I'm playing?
Because I don't have the time to watch them grow.
Did you know the rain has to wait when I'm playing?
Because I don't have the time to watch it flow.
Did you know the match has to wait when I'm playing?
Because I don't have the time to watch it glow.
Did you know all the doors have to wait when I'm playing?
Because I don't have the time to shut them close.
Did you know the hills and the rain and the match
And the doors and the floors and the walls
Are so clean and praise not the blight of a scratch
Simply because I never played in their halls?
Because I don't have the time to watch them grow.
Did you know the rain has to wait when I'm playing?
Because I don't have the time to watch it flow.
Did you know the match has to wait when I'm playing?
Because I don't have the time to watch it glow.
Did you know all the doors have to wait when I'm playing?
Because I don't have the time to shut them close.
Did you know the hills and the rain and the match
And the doors and the floors and the walls
Are so clean and praise not the blight of a scratch
Simply because I never played in their halls?
Not tonight, I'm working.
Did you know the hills have to wait when I'm playing?
Because I don't have the time to watch them grow.
Did you know the rain has to wait when I'm playing?
Because I don't have the time to watch it flow.
Did you know the match has to wait when I'm playing?
Because I don't have the time to watch it glow.
Did you know all the doors have to wait when I'm playing?
Because I don't have the time to shut them close.
Did you know the hills and the rain and the match
And the doors and the floors and the walls
Are so clean and praise not the blight of a scratch
Simply because I never played in their halls?
Because I don't have the time to watch them grow.
Did you know the rain has to wait when I'm playing?
Because I don't have the time to watch it flow.
Did you know the match has to wait when I'm playing?
Because I don't have the time to watch it glow.
Did you know all the doors have to wait when I'm playing?
Because I don't have the time to shut them close.
Did you know the hills and the rain and the match
And the doors and the floors and the walls
Are so clean and praise not the blight of a scratch
Simply because I never played in their halls?
Saturday, 4 June 2011
The victorious mistaking
Nobody will ever let you know when you ask the reasons why...
They just tell you that you're on your own till your head all full of lies!
- Sabbath Bloody Sabbath
Hindsight is a powerful tool when it comes to adjudicating one's personal worth. When I look back now, standing smack in the middle of 2011, I can finally see the last decade for what it's really been: living out each moment since 2001 has been a tiring task, speckled generously with situations that have driven me to want to kill myself. However, the vision from 2011 is breathtaking. I feel like a long river that has wound its course through a whole mountain range and now, taking a moment of pause, sees the Grand Canyon in its erosive wake.
My school years leading up to graduation from high school were all bland: the person they birthed at the end of 2006 was not even half-formed and had no ambitions that he was willing to really fight for (mistake #1). Then, the next few months in the same year crystallized that half-formed being into an adult who, without tools, was expected to fight. Looking back at that moment through these hindsight-lenses, I see a lot of things I now regret doing (or not doing).
Then came college. If you've read Viktor E. Frankl's 'Man's Search for Meaning', you'll known what I mean when I say college is where the indecisive soul's journey ends and a period of enjoyable decision-making begins, a period within which all the old socks are not discarded but simple washed, repainted and worn - like food porn (which is not what you think it is)! It's a life from which we emerge reoriented and nothing else.
During all those hours I spent in my various rooms (318-B, C-226 and B-530) writing and editing and proofreading and reading, I've received so much praise as well as criticism for different things. If I hadn't shown up in class, the first thing I was told was I spent too much time in my room doing counterproductive stuff. If I did show up in class (as analogous to scoring high in a test, etc.), I was told I was seeing the errors in my ways too late. I've since realized people say all kinds of things.
Sure, it sounds hollow to you, but you'll someday get to the point in life when you seem within reach of your dreams and, right then, you'll realize all that's mattered till then is the yardstick by which you measured yourself. It stands the test for all kinds of things. Don't tell me you're not laughing at your past-you who refused to carry an umbrella to school just because you thought it was a measure of your "coolness". Peer pressure is one thing, but like Eleanor Roosevelt says, "no one can make you feel inferior without your consent."
Life is a lesson...
You learn it when you're through.
- Take A Look Around
If you say so, but there's a supple silver lining to that saying. Not all of life's lessons are applicable all the time, so I divided my life into certain periods: learning, dreaming, preparing, living, and thinking. When I'm "dreaming", I find the lessons from the period of "learning" applicable; when I'm "preparing", I find the lessons form the period of "dreaming" applicable; so forth. Another thing is that I've been a considerably different person for the first three phases (I'd like to think I'm nearing the beginning of "living"). While any other person would find that unsettling, I don't.
What I choose to take from that observation is that, in each period, I've committed enough mistakes to change myself by that much. I don't mind mistakes - I like committing them; the hatred of them sinks in when I've been deliberate somewhere in the process. The thrill of the uphill charge after each mistake is unmistakable, and the rewarding victory is that and that alone. Even if I don't clear the interview I have on Monday to join a niche journalism institute in Madras, I'm going to move on so fast my parents are going to think my moral compass is broken.
Nothing is going to stop me from writing. Nothing is going to stop me from thinking. I'm still going to annoy my friends in argument, I'm still going to bring up numbers that conjure frowns on local MLAs, I'm still going to possess and preserve the ambition in me to, one day, be called one of the greatest writers of this century. The yardstick I measure myself with has been, is and will always be the man I was yesterday. That way, I know I'm only going up.
Thought is free.
- The Tempest; Act III, scene 2
The victorious mistaking
Nobody will ever let you know when you ask the reasons why...
They just tell you that you're on your own till your head all full of lies!
- Sabbath Bloody Sabbath
Hindsight is a powerful tool when it comes to adjudicating one's personal worth. When I look back now, standing smack in the middle of 2011, I can finally see the last decade for what it's really been: living out each moment since 2001 has been a tiring task, speckled generously with situations that have driven me to want to kill myself. However, the vision from 2011 is breathtaking. I feel like a long river that has wound its course through a whole mountain range and now, taking a moment of pause, sees the Grand Canyon in its erosive wake.
My school years leading up to graduation from high school were all bland: the person they birthed at the end of 2006 was not even half-formed and had no ambitions that he was willing to really fight for (mistake #1). Then, the next few months in the same year crystallized that half-formed being into an adult who, without tools, was expected to fight. Looking back at that moment through these hindsight-lenses, I see a lot of things I now regret doing (or not doing).
Then came college. If you've read Viktor E. Frankl's 'Man's Search for Meaning', you'll known what I mean when I say college is where the indecisive soul's journey ends and a period of enjoyable decision-making begins, a period within which all the old socks are not discarded but simple washed, repainted and worn - like food porn (which is not what you think it is)! It's a life from which we emerge reoriented and nothing else.
During all those hours I spent in my various rooms (318-B, C-226 and B-530) writing and editing and proofreading and reading, I've received so much praise as well as criticism for different things. If I hadn't shown up in class, the first thing I was told was I spent too much time in my room doing counterproductive stuff. If I did show up in class (as analogous to scoring high in a test, etc.), I was told I was seeing the errors in my ways too late. I've since realized people say all kinds of things.
Sure, it sounds hollow to you, but you'll someday get to the point in life when you seem within reach of your dreams and, right then, you'll realize all that's mattered till then is the yardstick by which you measured yourself. It stands the test for all kinds of things. Don't tell me you're not laughing at your past-you who refused to carry an umbrella to school just because you thought it was a measure of your "coolness". Peer pressure is one thing, but like Eleanor Roosevelt says, "no one can make you feel inferior without your consent."
Life is a lesson...
You learn it when you're through.
- Take A Look Around
If you say so, but there's a supple silver lining to that saying. Not all of life's lessons are applicable all the time, so I divided my life into certain periods: learning, dreaming, preparing, living, and thinking. When I'm "dreaming", I find the lessons from the period of "learning" applicable; when I'm "preparing", I find the lessons form the period of "dreaming" applicable; so forth. Another thing is that I've been a considerably different person for the first three phases (I'd like to think I'm nearing the beginning of "living"). While any other person would find that unsettling, I don't.
What I choose to take from that observation is that, in each period, I've committed enough mistakes to change myself by that much. I don't mind mistakes - I like committing them; the hatred of them sinks in when I've been deliberate somewhere in the process. The thrill of the uphill charge after each mistake is unmistakable, and the rewarding victory is that and that alone. Even if I don't clear the interview I have on Monday to join a niche journalism institute in Madras, I'm going to move on so fast my parents are going to think my moral compass is broken.
Nothing is going to stop me from writing. Nothing is going to stop me from thinking. I'm still going to annoy my friends in argument, I'm still going to bring up numbers that conjure frowns on local MLAs, I'm still going to possess and preserve the ambition in me to, one day, be called one of the greatest writers of this century. The yardstick I measure myself with has been, is and will always be the man I was yesterday. That way, I know I'm only going up.
Thought is free.
- The Tempest; Act III, scene 2
Monday, 23 May 2011
Aurora
Beyond the mountains, the crowning guardians,
There was an horizon that spanned the sky
From the seven stars in the cold East
To the sun hidden forever on the brink of the West.
At the foot of a glacier, where the moon turned blue,
I was come finally to the end of my way
Where there was an aurora every day.
In the cold warmth of the infinite loneliness,
Within a loud silence, slept a new world.
In the dark virgin waters, an unborn child swam,
And I knew somehow it was the coming of man.
The sun was never to rise in my eyes again;
I was finally come to the end of my way
Where there was an aurora every day.
A fierce wind lay to rest the reeds around me.
The flock of birds in the distance only reminding me
Of the many, many miles lying open behind my back,
My footprints in the mud showing my children the track-
I knew I was somewhere in a place they called home.
I was finally come to the end of my way
Where there was an aurora every day.
There was an horizon that spanned the sky
From the seven stars in the cold East
To the sun hidden forever on the brink of the West.
At the foot of a glacier, where the moon turned blue,
I was come finally to the end of my way
Where there was an aurora every day.
In the cold warmth of the infinite loneliness,
Within a loud silence, slept a new world.
In the dark virgin waters, an unborn child swam,
And I knew somehow it was the coming of man.
The sun was never to rise in my eyes again;
I was finally come to the end of my way
Where there was an aurora every day.
A fierce wind lay to rest the reeds around me.
The flock of birds in the distance only reminding me
Of the many, many miles lying open behind my back,
My footprints in the mud showing my children the track-
I knew I was somewhere in a place they called home.
I was finally come to the end of my way
Where there was an aurora every day.
Friday, 22 April 2011
Stardust by Tim
Countless and blazing verdant were the leaves that sprung, buds of hope,
They clung, precariously, on to my skin, feeding on my sweat and tears,
Then some winds blew, with those frosty gusts, I watched them elope,
One by one they fell, as if sliced by a butcher's knife, the cold metal smelted from my fears,
I protested, with my silent screams the air was rife, there was nobody around, no one to hear,
And yet they crumbled; those withering leaves, yet they fell,
Softly they floated, carried by unseen arms, ringing a death knell.
Many dreams visited my half-awakened mind,
Bright drops of mercury that I cupped in my hands in a shimmering pool,
But now, those oft-remembered wishes, I cannot find.
The winds of time speak; they call me a fool,
For this is how things must be, dreams die as a rule.
Trickle away you brilliant snakes, into memory's depths, into its dark wells,
And rest there; while slowly fade the music of tolling, mourning bells.
Brave were the adventures I lived out in days long gone by,
Of fantastic beasts, dryads and queens, and wishes made upon a distant star,
I can see the stardust, it once veiled my eyes, and now, I see it fly,
It mingles with the air, and moves away, it vanishes, it has moved so far.
All the world is mapped, its creatures tagged, how pale the colours of this earth truly are,
The winds of time are calling, hurry; I must set sail, before its breath forever dies down,
To find a corner that mortal eyes have never gazed upon and call it my own.
The winds of time roar in triumph; against my fragile mask they batter,
To etch a line on my face with which to count each passing year,
And yet some leaves cling stubbornly on, and some traces of quicksilver linger.
Sculpted pictures of a heroic future that loomed in glorious might untainted with fear,
Now are eroded, now are washed away, like sand castles on a stormy shore, alas! they once were so dear.
The sands of time fall, I pound on the glass walls, but its tiny grains gradually bury,
In the end, life has turned out to be just ordinary.
They clung, precariously, on to my skin, feeding on my sweat and tears,
Then some winds blew, with those frosty gusts, I watched them elope,
One by one they fell, as if sliced by a butcher's knife, the cold metal smelted from my fears,
I protested, with my silent screams the air was rife, there was nobody around, no one to hear,
And yet they crumbled; those withering leaves, yet they fell,
Softly they floated, carried by unseen arms, ringing a death knell.
Many dreams visited my half-awakened mind,
Bright drops of mercury that I cupped in my hands in a shimmering pool,
But now, those oft-remembered wishes, I cannot find.
The winds of time speak; they call me a fool,
For this is how things must be, dreams die as a rule.
Trickle away you brilliant snakes, into memory's depths, into its dark wells,
And rest there; while slowly fade the music of tolling, mourning bells.
Brave were the adventures I lived out in days long gone by,
Of fantastic beasts, dryads and queens, and wishes made upon a distant star,
I can see the stardust, it once veiled my eyes, and now, I see it fly,
It mingles with the air, and moves away, it vanishes, it has moved so far.
All the world is mapped, its creatures tagged, how pale the colours of this earth truly are,
The winds of time are calling, hurry; I must set sail, before its breath forever dies down,
To find a corner that mortal eyes have never gazed upon and call it my own.
The winds of time roar in triumph; against my fragile mask they batter,
To etch a line on my face with which to count each passing year,
And yet some leaves cling stubbornly on, and some traces of quicksilver linger.
Sculpted pictures of a heroic future that loomed in glorious might untainted with fear,
Now are eroded, now are washed away, like sand castles on a stormy shore, alas! they once were so dear.
The sands of time fall, I pound on the glass walls, but its tiny grains gradually bury,
In the end, life has turned out to be just ordinary.
Monday, 11 April 2011
Do You?
The guidance is outside
You just have to say it so
It's been years
Will you still deny it, no no
Love will die and love will go
You'll still remain then
Squeeze it into your eyes
You'll still feel then
When you saw this weakness in the skies
Thought that was you, that you'd fly
Now you know that isn't true
All your dreamings rally on for you
Seen some years
Been those years when your words came true
But everything I feel's just a clue
I feel you've already been there
Not what it means to be here
The only difference is what
Might be is now and that much freer
Well you know their faces are clear
The windows are wide open
That you're staring wide-eyed from
It's always better at home
That's why we work a bit and some
We need the money to come and come
I'm so drunk i don't care if
You killed me right now
C'mon you're alive
Now you'll know it's true and how
All the songs under a violin bow
Are never for real
It's always better a holiday
So much better a holiday
So much better that way, oh!
You're gonna make somebody love you
Well do ya, do ya do ya wanna
Wanna wanna go
Where I've never met you before?
Do ya wanna wanna go
Where you've never never seen you before?
Do you?
You just have to say it so
It's been years
Will you still deny it, no no
Love will die and love will go
You'll still remain then
Squeeze it into your eyes
You'll still feel then
When you saw this weakness in the skies
Thought that was you, that you'd fly
Now you know that isn't true
All your dreamings rally on for you
Seen some years
Been those years when your words came true
But everything I feel's just a clue
I feel you've already been there
Not what it means to be here
The only difference is what
Might be is now and that much freer
Well you know their faces are clear
The windows are wide open
That you're staring wide-eyed from
It's always better at home
That's why we work a bit and some
We need the money to come and come
I'm so drunk i don't care if
You killed me right now
C'mon you're alive
Now you'll know it's true and how
All the songs under a violin bow
Are never for real
It's always better a holiday
So much better a holiday
So much better that way, oh!
You're gonna make somebody love you
Well do ya, do ya do ya wanna
Wanna wanna go
Where I've never met you before?
Do ya wanna wanna go
Where you've never never seen you before?
Do you?
Monday, 7 March 2011
Alive With A Colour Of Death
Solo winds of loneliness /
Neutrons fly alone in the wind /
Lust you can always trust /
Even after lakes crumble to dust /
Eagles fly around me /
Call it death trying to surprise me /
I bleed a new colour today /
Day after night after day /
We shall sail for ever /
Fie upon the sad wings of destiny /
The eagles have come to find us /
Find us where we will always be /
I don’t know what to say but shout /
These are the tidings of failure beyond doubt /
Please let’s let the fire go /
The cloudy skies of the dreamer /
Have an old rain to pass on to the solo winds /
Why have you achieved nothing amongst the gold /
Did you fall again amongst grasses tall /
Do the stars not seem to care at all /
Should I have sorrow /
Return my soul instead /
You’re still wearing that smile from yesterday /
How do you separate the night from another day /
How do you know the prospects are all gone /
A day went by and fooled /
I thought that you could strangle me /
Wake me from these sleepless dreams /
Atlantis is drowned and now lost /
And the purple stalker continues his quest /
Can you hear the saints weeping in Hell /
Out in the cold and run of the mill /
When the stars fall in a blue rain /
I stand alone in the purple haze /
A prisoner of your eyes /
Of your eyes in the morning light /
Neutrons fly alone in the wind /
Lust you can always trust /
Even after lakes crumble to dust /
Eagles fly around me /
Call it death trying to surprise me /
I bleed a new colour today /
Day after night after day /
We shall sail for ever /
Fie upon the sad wings of destiny /
The eagles have come to find us /
Find us where we will always be /
I don’t know what to say but shout /
These are the tidings of failure beyond doubt /
Please let’s let the fire go /
The cloudy skies of the dreamer /
Have an old rain to pass on to the solo winds /
Why have you achieved nothing amongst the gold /
Did you fall again amongst grasses tall /
Do the stars not seem to care at all /
Should I have sorrow /
Return my soul instead /
You’re still wearing that smile from yesterday /
How do you separate the night from another day /
How do you know the prospects are all gone /
A day went by and fooled /
I thought that you could strangle me /
Wake me from these sleepless dreams /
Atlantis is drowned and now lost /
And the purple stalker continues his quest /
Can you hear the saints weeping in Hell /
Out in the cold and run of the mill /
When the stars fall in a blue rain /
I stand alone in the purple haze /
A prisoner of your eyes /
Of your eyes in the morning light /
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)