junksick
Bluelighter
However much you age you feel that the kid stuff happened right around yesterday afternoon, your school chums comforting you and the stinging hurt that oozed from the prejudices of your enemies--remembering that some even doubled as friends. No matter: 20, 38, 65. Your still holding your best mates hand and coming up with schemes and adventures like on that post-modern cartoon you used to watch, which none of the ones today match in any form.
Your Mum and Dad keeping up with your surreal thoughts, chalking it up to simple childhood and seeming to give you gruff no matter what. Only now you realize you got away with murder, and are ever lucky to be alive and on top of your life. Hypocritically grasping for straws in that same inky mess, when your life happens to be awry. Trying to realize what went wrong or what went right. Those times will never come again: not unless you will them into being, and then it's only a pale ersatz.
Stay away from the toys, the culture, the music. Treasures best left alone to others who need them, the lost children of today. Will they too know the comfort of nostalgia? The security of memories and feelings that where the best and now peel everything to a strange after-glow?
Grasp the throttle for some sort of lobotimized control: your lost in an unsoberish haze of stupidity. Who is to blame? God is to blame, Buddha, Vishnu, Zeus, luck, life.
Those days of candy, cruelty, and fun won't ever seem likely to end until it's to late. In your bed then crippled and old and wondering when the hell any of it made any sense, and good God you wished you kissed that beautiful girl when you where 5. Missed opportunities: rolling through the head while sipping on hot cocoa: my bones ache, my head hurts, depression has set in.
Your Mum and Dad keeping up with your surreal thoughts, chalking it up to simple childhood and seeming to give you gruff no matter what. Only now you realize you got away with murder, and are ever lucky to be alive and on top of your life. Hypocritically grasping for straws in that same inky mess, when your life happens to be awry. Trying to realize what went wrong or what went right. Those times will never come again: not unless you will them into being, and then it's only a pale ersatz.
Stay away from the toys, the culture, the music. Treasures best left alone to others who need them, the lost children of today. Will they too know the comfort of nostalgia? The security of memories and feelings that where the best and now peel everything to a strange after-glow?
Grasp the throttle for some sort of lobotimized control: your lost in an unsoberish haze of stupidity. Who is to blame? God is to blame, Buddha, Vishnu, Zeus, luck, life.
Those days of candy, cruelty, and fun won't ever seem likely to end until it's to late. In your bed then crippled and old and wondering when the hell any of it made any sense, and good God you wished you kissed that beautiful girl when you where 5. Missed opportunities: rolling through the head while sipping on hot cocoa: my bones ache, my head hurts, depression has set in.
