Why:
Life is funny.
Life is sad.
Life is lonely.
Life is full of idealist undergrads that discover coming-of-age cliches that have been played out since Salinger went into hiding.
When you're wrapped up in your own mind the world becomes a solipsist drama.
Thinking kids fall for this hard.
It's the Hamlet hubris for the cul-de-sac clique.
Instead of black tights and accusing the ones we love, we're wearing clunky glasses, crossing our arms and staring at unfinished concrete steps.
School is our Elsinore. The critical eyes of the dukes and earls have been replaced by the hyped-frat-trendy. The unseen nooks and crannies have been replaced by the dumpster behind the English building where the faux-intellectuals go to smoke and post-modernize the world safely in the odorous halo of wet paper and stale cigarettes.
After we stub out the butts, we walk into our own mini-tragedies:
--The perfect-girl that won't call back because you come off as a little too obsessive.
--Growing apart from the people that used to care about you.
--Struggling against the pull of the 401K and saving a Sunday for re-tarring the driveway and trimming the hedges after church.
After sucking your self into the snap and pop of your own neurons you see patterns and, deluding yourself, maybe the answer to your problems.
There are hints and signs in the way a leaf falls or a song on the radio. You're close to figuring it all out.
It's all too much like a physicist driven insane from getting a step a way from unified field theory.
It's a mild form of mental illness.
It's a morose feedback loop powered by hope.
Hope is where the hurt comes from.
We want Journey.
We get a dirge.
-Sam
Life is sad.
Life is lonely.
Life is full of idealist undergrads that discover coming-of-age cliches that have been played out since Salinger went into hiding.
When you're wrapped up in your own mind the world becomes a solipsist drama.
Thinking kids fall for this hard.
It's the Hamlet hubris for the cul-de-sac clique.
Instead of black tights and accusing the ones we love, we're wearing clunky glasses, crossing our arms and staring at unfinished concrete steps.
School is our Elsinore. The critical eyes of the dukes and earls have been replaced by the hyped-frat-trendy. The unseen nooks and crannies have been replaced by the dumpster behind the English building where the faux-intellectuals go to smoke and post-modernize the world safely in the odorous halo of wet paper and stale cigarettes.
After we stub out the butts, we walk into our own mini-tragedies:
--The perfect-girl that won't call back because you come off as a little too obsessive.
--Growing apart from the people that used to care about you.
--Struggling against the pull of the 401K and saving a Sunday for re-tarring the driveway and trimming the hedges after church.
After sucking your self into the snap and pop of your own neurons you see patterns and, deluding yourself, maybe the answer to your problems.
There are hints and signs in the way a leaf falls or a song on the radio. You're close to figuring it all out.
It's all too much like a physicist driven insane from getting a step a way from unified field theory.
It's a mild form of mental illness.
It's a morose feedback loop powered by hope.
Hope is where the hurt comes from.
We want Journey.
We get a dirge.
-Sam