Its a horrible thing watching a country die, watching it rot from the inside.
Maybe I'm nostalgic, but in truth I wouldn't want to go back to my youth. I like who I am now, I never want know so little, to be that confused again.
But I miss the open doors that were there. I miss the circles (how ever small they were) were I belonged. I miss a hundred strange, small unbranded shops. Tucked away in corners, with strange things and strange smells.
I miss wanting to BE where I was, I miss wanting to be where I am. We do not fit here anymore, and what the lowest common denominator wants is so far below what we need.
Its even harder understanding and having no voice, or an audience with no ears. Were dying here, we've lost so much and are losing more every day. Most of us just turn over and go back to sleep.
I'm pounding on the glass, watching people die on the other side, but the only screams I can hear are my own.
More than anything I am afraid of getting too tired to do anything more, of letting go, getting spoon fed, and rolling over and going back to sleep myself. Of dying inside, and of never sharing what the past really meant to me, with everyone, who so desperately need it.
There is no room here for my dreams.
Maybe I'm nostalgic, but in truth I wouldn't want to go back to my youth. I like who I am now, I never want know so little, to be that confused again.
But I miss the open doors that were there. I miss the circles (how ever small they were) were I belonged. I miss a hundred strange, small unbranded shops. Tucked away in corners, with strange things and strange smells.
I miss wanting to BE where I was, I miss wanting to be where I am. We do not fit here anymore, and what the lowest common denominator wants is so far below what we need.
Its even harder understanding and having no voice, or an audience with no ears. Were dying here, we've lost so much and are losing more every day. Most of us just turn over and go back to sleep.
I'm pounding on the glass, watching people die on the other side, but the only screams I can hear are my own.
More than anything I am afraid of getting too tired to do anything more, of letting go, getting spoon fed, and rolling over and going back to sleep myself. Of dying inside, and of never sharing what the past really meant to me, with everyone, who so desperately need it.
There is no room here for my dreams.
