As the impurities of our insecurities weigh us down,
we prematurely sometimes obscurely wonder who would betray us now.
But I look at you, not how you look at me, and wonder who mistook your
beauty as an invitation to cruelty. As this fixation gets to me, I would not
expect you to understand
The entirety of our anxiety goes
unspoken but understood. With analysis comes paralysis as I
wonder why you would. Because I look at you then look at me and
cant figure out why you should.
Every thought is sliced
in half. Every word becomes a paragraph. Every sigh seems
to multiply until all I can do is laugh. Its how I look
at you, not how you look at me, that turns my world to glass. And
I dare you to shatter me before my flattery turns us into ash.
What
we call abstinence is merely a tapestry of events culminating to an
exquisite, sublime plan. Overkill and over-analysis seems to be in
high demand I would not expect you to understand.
The sum
of all our parts glued together by two hearts. As they beat as
one, the adrenaline and the rush become the medicine for us.
And its exhilarating and contagious. I look at me, not how I
look at you, with disgust.
From anticipation to that
first thrust Its the celebration of us I would not expect you
to understand.
The entirety of our anxiety goes unspoken but
understood. With analysis comes paralysis as I wonder why you
would. Because I look at you then look at me and cant figure
out why you should.
It's one of those rare cliches that
actually means something. It's never used for the Britney
Spears or Donny Osmond's or even the Paul McCartneys of the world.
It's reserved for the unique, the special, those whose talent is so
remarkable that "talented" sounds insulting.
The
Adeles, the Whitneys, the Freddy Mercurys and yes, the Chris Cornells
all merit that cliche.
Those who write; be it, lyrics or
novels or simplistic pieces as I am doing now, all find a common
thread in our self-described art... Inspiration: the intangible
stimulant that gets our creative juices flowing.
For
some, it's heartbreak. What better way to honestly emote the
suffering you feel at a given moment than writing? Joy; such as
falling in love is another catalyst for artists. When you
experience moments of joy you want the world and the individual
responsible for it to know and feel it.
For me, yes,
those are the two themes I consistently stick with when publicly and
vulnerably throwing these into the outside world. However,
there is a third one: Nostalgia. What really is
nostalgia? It's when something tangible (i.e. a song on the
radio, a scent, a simple name) reminds us of past intangibles like
heartbreak or joy.
Two nights ago, the world lost Chris
Cornell. Like many from my generation, it left a hollow feeling
of emptiness in me. Was I one of his "biggest" fans?
Not really... but I am a fan of extraordinary talent.
Talent
is an aphrodisiac. Rock stars, actors, athletes.. go ahead,
pick a career that takes spectacular talent; you'll find the least
attractive get the most attractive. It's not the money or
fame. It's talent. Those who shine the
brightest...
Chris Cornell shone brightly in a perpetually
overcast and dreary city called Seattle.
Seattle is
credited as the birthplace of grunge; the angst ridden music genre
that transitioned us from the vapid hair bands of the 80s and was the
precursor to the ridiculously choreographed boy bands of the mid to
late 90s.
Grunge meant something to us. It
was dirty. Honest. Joyless. Hopeless. Grunge
was the genre of dysfunctional and often severely unhappy musicians
talking TO young people and kids like me. It was relate-able.
Seattle, its birthplace, makes perfect sense. It's not happy
sunny Hawaii.
It's no mystery why the great ones from that era
are almost all gone. Cobain, Scott Weilland, Layne Staley,
Andrew Wood and now, Chris Cornell; either, from suicide or drug
overdoses.
Joyless people or those wallowing in hopelessness
not only sing about it, they live it. And ultimately, die from
it.
I know a good dozen cliches for those who ponder
suicide or want to taste faith and hope. I know the 12 steps of
recovery. I could add a few paragraphs with some self-righteous
inspiration to end this neatly with a bow so whomever reads this
might possibly feel good.
I'm not going to do that.
Chris
Cornell killed himself two nights ago.
The world is now
darker without his talent. And I find myself nostalgically
longing for the days when I was younger shaking my head in agreement
as Nirvana or Soundgarden and the other grunge bands lamented their
hopelessness.
Hypothetical lifetime with you. Unforgettable
and sublime from my point of view . It's love, it's love, it's
love. Spring is here, everything's anew.
Anxiety killed the dinosaurs. It will kill us,
too.
Profound sadness fills the air. Put your hands
around my neck and choke away this despair. Oh but, it's love,
it's love, it's love. I'm the second coming. Deja vu.
Hypothetical kiss on the cheek. Nicotine lips
taste so sweet. Keep your sticky fingers away from my heart,
you speak. Oh but it's love, it's love, it's love.
Antiquated ideas provide the missing link.
Hypothetical devil speaking in my ears.
Skeptical of sentimental crocodile tears yet highly suggestible after
all these years. Oh but it's love, it's love, it's love.
Mystical or cynical, one must disappear. Hypothetical angel
swinging from our chandelier.
Anxiety killed the
dinosaurs and their fossils became souvenirs.
Profound
anticipation fills the air. Dig your nails into my spine so I
know you care. And if it's love, if it's love, if it's love;
scream it everywhere. I'm the second coming. Aut neca
aut necare.
Hypothetical until death should do us
part. An unbearable last breath and a broken heart.
It's love, it's love, it's love. Anxiety killed the dinosaurs; isolated and apart.
Hypothetical lifetime with you. Unregrettable and
sublime from my point of view. It is love, it is love, it
is love. Spring is here, everything's anew.
