Some things don't make sense. At first. After awhile, it still doesn't make sense. Maybe it's because we don't want to make sense of it all. Because, just sometimes, when things become clear, when we uncover the underlying layers, we lose the magic, the emotions, the fantasy behind it all. The kind that provides the warm fuzziness, the self-indulgent tears, the misleading intentions.
This is not, it's not the end. I am making all things new again.
Some things are like that. Most things aren't. For those that hit you straight in the face, all you're left with are deep impressions. The kind that qualify as exact copies of the original. And the original doesn't lie.
I falter. I pick me up. I falter. You pick me up. I falter. You pick me up again.
Hmm. Falter would make a cool band name. Wait, it's been taken.
So how do we make sense of the world we live in, should we even try? I don't know, I don't think I'll ever know. It just doesn't... make sense.
I'm not making much either. But I swear I'm not making this up.
You die tonight. Killed. Drop dead. Gun to the head, pull the trigger accidentally. Perhaps that is the biggest uncertainty in (or out of) life. What comes next? Perhaps a big light, perhaps nothing at all, perhaps it's just the conservation of energy. But wouldn't you just die to know? I guess not. It's not as interesting as how cotton candy works.
The significance of life and death lies not in life and death themselves.
I'm not doing what I should. I never do. One moment it's fire-fighting action. The next, it's driving a truck. And the next, it's pulling the thorns out of my skin.
It's only skin deep. But it cuts so deeply.
So if people could, just for once, take a look at what is going on around them, and take a moment to smell the air, the world would be a better place. To the power of minus forty-nine, at least.
Ok I really don't make sense now. It's time to start to stop.
We are fallen angels waiting for a home.
Make this a happy place. Whatever this place may be. The rain's gotta stop somehow. Or else, how do we dry our laundry? Pneumonia's gotta stop too.
The race. A moment of glory. A lifetime of shame.
I would make a disclaimer at this point, but no. I wouldn't.
This is the end, beautiful friend.
This is the end. My only friend, the end.
Ride on.
Let's skip the pages to the ending, shall we?
This is not, it's not the end. I am making all things new again.
Some things are like that. Most things aren't. For those that hit you straight in the face, all you're left with are deep impressions. The kind that qualify as exact copies of the original. And the original doesn't lie.
I falter. I pick me up. I falter. You pick me up. I falter. You pick me up again.
Hmm. Falter would make a cool band name. Wait, it's been taken.
So how do we make sense of the world we live in, should we even try? I don't know, I don't think I'll ever know. It just doesn't... make sense.
I'm not making much either. But I swear I'm not making this up.
You die tonight. Killed. Drop dead. Gun to the head, pull the trigger accidentally. Perhaps that is the biggest uncertainty in (or out of) life. What comes next? Perhaps a big light, perhaps nothing at all, perhaps it's just the conservation of energy. But wouldn't you just die to know? I guess not. It's not as interesting as how cotton candy works.
The significance of life and death lies not in life and death themselves.
I'm not doing what I should. I never do. One moment it's fire-fighting action. The next, it's driving a truck. And the next, it's pulling the thorns out of my skin.
It's only skin deep. But it cuts so deeply.
So if people could, just for once, take a look at what is going on around them, and take a moment to smell the air, the world would be a better place. To the power of minus forty-nine, at least.
Ok I really don't make sense now. It's time to start to stop.
We are fallen angels waiting for a home.
Make this a happy place. Whatever this place may be. The rain's gotta stop somehow. Or else, how do we dry our laundry? Pneumonia's gotta stop too.
The race. A moment of glory. A lifetime of shame.
I would make a disclaimer at this point, but no. I wouldn't.
This is the end, beautiful friend.
This is the end. My only friend, the end.
Ride on.
Let's skip the pages to the ending, shall we?
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