What more could we want from the world? A road or two to hobble on down and a whole sky there for the scraping, a place to put all your labels and plenty of art to fight about. It’s the sweet spot that we miss, the moment where desire and intention sync up the DJ’s selection within the happenstance. The song that lands upon the just so, the movie that reminds you of something missed in your life or shows you that you’ve scuffed up the circumstances to your favor. John Cusack holding a boom box high as Peter Gabriel makes his case. John Cusack in the rain shouting out your name.
The world is on wheels, the world is all wishes and wires, the world mostly lives in your head. We exist as the gist of ancestry and origin stories, a series of applied myths that gain or lose traction depending on the matter that erupts outside the mind. We scramble and skitter, receiving our orders to deny life and limb for some set of brutal abstractions that amount to little more than box top rules and counter factual fantasies, encouraging us to end our lives for the sake of the worst of the worst. Personally, I’ll stick with the sticks and stones. Words do not work in my favor.
It’s down to the skips and starts, poor service and a deadbeat heart. Another litany for company, same old same old on a roll. The hint of some lost song playing behind my eyes as I listen to the wind and the television. You always come in in the middle of the story, it goes just fast enough that you can’t catch up, and you leave before it comes to an end. The myths a movie that’s always on, projected onto the tattered sheets billowing in your head, outside the observable anecdotes. Our reasons are parsed out contractions crafted from contradiction and faith in something conveniently unseen, partitioned wishes claimed against the odds the flags of whatever hill looks good for the hyperbolic dying. Another story waiting for a screen as we burn the future down on spec.