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There was once a time
When things weren’t made of plastic,
Or of steel or of anything synthetic.
Oh, life must have been so simple,
Without the technology headaches,
Where every element we had was nature
And slow moving machines.
I hear that people back then lived hard lives,
I hear they weren’t happy.
Well, are we happy now?
They say technology’s supposed to make life easy;
I wonder if that makes us smart or makes us lazy.
And I’m wondering if we’ve lost faith in us.
Have I lost faith in us?
All sleeping so comfortably in our beds,
Listening to the hum of the television’s voices
Because we’re scared of the voices in our heads;
The sensible murmur we try so hard to repress -
We’ll never break out of this circle:
Can’t you see it in each other’s eyes?
The hate and the power and the covered up lies?
And the little boy’s sitting there, asking his whys –
So, why?
Tell me why;
We only live until we die,
And we’re setting up the world for
Other people’s lives,
But I suppose that doesn’t matter to you.
I suppose that doesn’t matter to you.
When I think of you, I smile,
Even when you treat me like a child;
When your old soul impatience
Meets my curiosity,
You make a questioning fool out of me -
Still, I’m grinning all the while.
One day you will be the dust in the wind,
The whirling dust, mingling with the sky
And the clouds;
You will be gone and
Your photographs will be gone,
All turned to ash and to dust and to wind.
I will be gone, too;
My breaths will catch with
The taste of the breeze on my tongue,
And I’ll spin away,
The sweet air out my lungs,
Out my heart.
Where will we be when there
Is nothing left to be?
Where will we be when no one
Is left to be?
Because nothing here stays,
No colors or sounds or smiles:
We’re in a place where everything goes.
One day it all will be the dust in the wind.
Even the sky
And the clouds.
But the sadness is not in the going,
It’s in the living.
Is it possible for me to do anything remotely right? I suppose not.
I forget everything because I swear I have some sort of memory problem. And now you hate me. Or you’re mad. You could find someone so much better than me, I swear.
But I don’t want you to.
When I told you ‘it’s unfair’ last night, I don’t think you knew what I meant. Maybe you don’t care, but I’m going to tell you anyway.
What I meant was that I find it extremely unfair how you can go a full 24 hours without talking to me and be fine, but I’m a wreck almost straight off the bat. It’s unfair that I always feel the pulling need to talk to you, even if I’m only asking you stupid, irrelevant questions; I always feel the pulling need, and you don’t. It’s unfair that even when I’m not talking to you, I still somewhat feel like I am because I’m always thinking about you; always, to the point where it may sicken you. Always worrying about you, always wondering about you and what you’re doing and about our future. WhenI’m thinking about the latter it’s always a similar image: just you and me and we’re holding hands and I’m kissing your cheek, your forehead. Isn’t that just the sappiest thing you’ve ever heard?
So we could have only talked for a little while one day, but I still feel that subdued bit of joy inside of me, somewhere, when I go over the day in my head. Because in my thoughts, we were together. So very sappy.
It’s unfair that I feel all these things and, from my knowledge, you are the exact opposite. I strongly doubt you think of me regularly; maybe in passing, if you see something that reminds you of me, but I doubt you think of me so often. You’re too practical to see us sometime in the future, holding hands and kissing, of all things. Of all things.
But the future’s cloudy, is it not?
Maybe that is in the realm of practicality, after all.
I don’t understand
The phrase ‘talk is cheap,’
When I’d pay a million dollars
Just to hear you speak;
Though the TV tells me
“A million isn’t much nowadays.”
So I’d pay a whole lot more,
I’d pay a whole lot more.
I’ll wait and wait until each
Of my aching limbs is sore;
Oh, the miles I would walk
If only to hear you talk.
Why am I here? I
Figure this world must have some
Sort of plan for me
