Just Like the World,
by Rewired,
9/16/04.
Structures crumble
as we outgrow well-worn lies
claustrophobic and constipated
in our minds and in our lives.
There's nothing to live for, but
what's there to die for, either?
The questions become the reason
for dragging your feet along
the well-worn road that's
dying beneath your tired feet.
There's got to be something better than this,
I'll mull over it all again, so sure there's
something I must have missed,
I've just got to make the right connection,
got to make creative associations
and it will all become clear as day,
not that I'd know what to do
with clarity, anyway.
What could we do with clarity, anyway?
It seems this is the night that never ends,
I thought I woke up, thought someone was pinching me,
but it was just a dream, and I awoke to meet
the old, familiar anti-light.
And I stare down the well again,
such a distorted reflection:
I can't make out a thing,
but I find it frightening.
Reflection is half accepting
what you can't change,
half recognizing what you can,
resolution is evolution with
continual adaptation in mind;
the state of Being always
alligned with the reality of Becoming,
the ever-altering entelechy,
the ever-present
feedback loop between.
But I can't see me,
I can't catch my echo,
I can't hear or see a thing,
how can I `tune' me,
how can I change me?
I know I have outgrown,
but not what --
I know I need to evolve,
but not to what,
but not how --
just like the world.
As above, so below,
as within, so without,
I know change begins within,
then spirals out,
but I can't see me,
though it feels frightening:
and would I even recognize me
if I caught sight of me?
by Rewired,
9/16/04.
Structures crumble
as we outgrow well-worn lies
claustrophobic and constipated
in our minds and in our lives.
There's nothing to live for, but
what's there to die for, either?
The questions become the reason
for dragging your feet along
the well-worn road that's
dying beneath your tired feet.
There's got to be something better than this,
I'll mull over it all again, so sure there's
something I must have missed,
I've just got to make the right connection,
got to make creative associations
and it will all become clear as day,
not that I'd know what to do
with clarity, anyway.
What could we do with clarity, anyway?
It seems this is the night that never ends,
I thought I woke up, thought someone was pinching me,
but it was just a dream, and I awoke to meet
the old, familiar anti-light.
And I stare down the well again,
such a distorted reflection:
I can't make out a thing,
but I find it frightening.
Reflection is half accepting
what you can't change,
half recognizing what you can,
resolution is evolution with
continual adaptation in mind;
the state of Being always
alligned with the reality of Becoming,
the ever-altering entelechy,
the ever-present
feedback loop between.
But I can't see me,
I can't catch my echo,
I can't hear or see a thing,
how can I `tune' me,
how can I change me?
I know I have outgrown,
but not what --
I know I need to evolve,
but not to what,
but not how --
just like the world.
As above, so below,
as within, so without,
I know change begins within,
then spirals out,
but I can't see me,
though it feels frightening:
and would I even recognize me
if I caught sight of me?
