Bodies
Haunting emails seem the trend of late- Ex's and friends confessions and questions wringing me dry- dry enough to become affections leech.
Why can people not fade from my life, why must they always come back and linger in my heart and brain like flashbacks even after I am ok with everything.
That crude saying-"life is a rollarcoaster"- has too much truth. Perhaps its why were here- to experience a constant flux in thought and emotion.
I want so much for my life to level out, at least periodically more then now. Then I wonder if id ruin it by becoming bored, if maybe deep inside I bring this on myself subconciously desiring it.
I hope not, how cruel that would be.
Im finding that the older i get, the more I sink into my past as well as adopt new lessons. Almost like history laid out in a time line- the same battles periodically every thousand years, for roughly the same reason.
Only the players are different, sometimes the reasoning.
In this same way I find myself looking into previous favourites for comfort and understanding, loving the new found meaning as my I reread and listen.
Bodies- s.p.
Cast the pearls aside, of a simple life of need
Come into my life forever
The crumbled cities stand as known
Of the sights you have been shown
Of the hurt you call your own
Love is suicide
The empty bodies stand at rest
Casualties of their own flesh
Afflicted by their dispossession
But no bodies ever knew
Nobodys
No bodies felt like you
Nobodys
Love is suicide
Now we drive the night, to the ironies of peace
You can't help deny forever
The tragedies reside in you
The secret sights hide in you
The lonely nights divide you in two
All my blisters now revealed
In the darkness of my dreams
In the spaces in between us
But no bodies ever knew
Nobodys
No bodies felt like you
Nobodys
Love is suicide
I dont agree fully, but then again Billy's always been melodramtic to the brim.
What matters is that falling in love- is similiar to suicide, only were reborn slightly changed by the others influence.
I wonder if with every relationship we loose more of ourselves, and adopt more of what the other person was or desired of us.
I still want it now, more then ever though. I want that idealized happiness that society has fabricated, even knowing its false.
I do not understand what it is in me that drives me to desire and keep myself open to the possibilty of "the one".
Knowing Im not alone by far in this doesnt help a bit, its actually more depressing.
I know it is not women alone ( though of course were more verbal about it usually) that waste so much time and effort on this desire.
For all our inventions and brilliance, why do so many of us still feel life is fulfilled only when you find the right mate?
What other can it be but primal genes that drives us half mad in a search for love, comfort and understanding in one person?
Irrational emotions that both distract and drive us, how dangerous it would be too control them fully.
The real "artist" is one who can mould into an inaminate thing levels of emotion and thought that touch other mortals.
How funny is it to think of artists as emotive dealers instead of inspired vagrants.
I wish I could argue evolutionary theory with Shakespeare, what an insight that would be.
Why can people not fade from my life, why must they always come back and linger in my heart and brain like flashbacks even after I am ok with everything.
That crude saying-"life is a rollarcoaster"- has too much truth. Perhaps its why were here- to experience a constant flux in thought and emotion.
I want so much for my life to level out, at least periodically more then now. Then I wonder if id ruin it by becoming bored, if maybe deep inside I bring this on myself subconciously desiring it.
I hope not, how cruel that would be.
Im finding that the older i get, the more I sink into my past as well as adopt new lessons. Almost like history laid out in a time line- the same battles periodically every thousand years, for roughly the same reason.
Only the players are different, sometimes the reasoning.
In this same way I find myself looking into previous favourites for comfort and understanding, loving the new found meaning as my I reread and listen.
Bodies- s.p.
Cast the pearls aside, of a simple life of need
Come into my life forever
The crumbled cities stand as known
Of the sights you have been shown
Of the hurt you call your own
Love is suicide
The empty bodies stand at rest
Casualties of their own flesh
Afflicted by their dispossession
But no bodies ever knew
Nobodys
No bodies felt like you
Nobodys
Love is suicide
Now we drive the night, to the ironies of peace
You can't help deny forever
The tragedies reside in you
The secret sights hide in you
The lonely nights divide you in two
All my blisters now revealed
In the darkness of my dreams
In the spaces in between us
But no bodies ever knew
Nobodys
No bodies felt like you
Nobodys
Love is suicide
I dont agree fully, but then again Billy's always been melodramtic to the brim.
What matters is that falling in love- is similiar to suicide, only were reborn slightly changed by the others influence.
I wonder if with every relationship we loose more of ourselves, and adopt more of what the other person was or desired of us.
I still want it now, more then ever though. I want that idealized happiness that society has fabricated, even knowing its false.
I do not understand what it is in me that drives me to desire and keep myself open to the possibilty of "the one".
Knowing Im not alone by far in this doesnt help a bit, its actually more depressing.
I know it is not women alone ( though of course were more verbal about it usually) that waste so much time and effort on this desire.
For all our inventions and brilliance, why do so many of us still feel life is fulfilled only when you find the right mate?
What other can it be but primal genes that drives us half mad in a search for love, comfort and understanding in one person?
Irrational emotions that both distract and drive us, how dangerous it would be too control them fully.
The real "artist" is one who can mould into an inaminate thing levels of emotion and thought that touch other mortals.
How funny is it to think of artists as emotive dealers instead of inspired vagrants.
I wish I could argue evolutionary theory with Shakespeare, what an insight that would be.