Evening at the Masquerade
Goddam muse! There I was, about to fall asleep, after a day of vegetating before a computer screen, and a tasty dinner, and my glorious muse came a-callin'. Now, here I am, unable to sleep, two hours before I hafta get up again. Ah well. . .such is the hardship of the artist. *grin* Yeah, right.
You know, I read on a online quiz recently a question that struck a chord in me. It asked me, "What is your worst fear?" To which I answered, truthfully, "Missing out on living life to its fullest." (or something similar to that, anyway). I didn't realize until my muse put words to feelings just how true that is. Not only did the quiz mention it, but certain friends of mine have recently commented on this (which you will all see the correlation soon enough, I guess).
I like me the way I am. I fear missing out on living life to its fullest more, although only slightly more, than I fear making mistakes that will affect me forever. I'm on a goddam seesaw, running back and forth, trying to keep it even. Its only a matter of time before I trip over the fulcrum and split my lip on the ass-worn wood. Actually, that's not true. It just sometimes happens that sometimes the seesaw sinks to the ground on one side or the other with a bowel-shaking thump. Which is ok. I managed to right the situation the last time the seesaw thumped, and I'll be able to do it again. Anyway, enough boring old prose. I hope this helps people understand what I've just rambled about. If not, it should still be enjoyable. If you don't enjoy it, then you obviously don't appreciate art and ought to go watch Rosanne reruns until your aorta bursts. I'm gonna go try and get some sleep.
Evening at the Masquerade - 12/3/02 - 12/3/02
The man walks with a powerful stride.
Powerful, and confident, so as to hide
Beneath this exterior, this facade of cheer,
A roiling and boiling cesspool of fear.
This fear has crippled the man most his life,
Kept him from happiness, but also from strife.
The only way to keep the fear in place
Is to talk with a grin plastered to his face.
The fear eats away at the man’s very soul.
Was what he did right? Did he lose control?
There are so many options for him to choose;
Some may be right. Others - he’ll lose.
Picture a boy, at the tender age of eight,
locking himself in a closet to avoid such weight.
The fear drew him inward, he avoided the looks
Of his parents; instead, he drowned in his books.
As the boy grew, he missed out on living.
His best friends were fictional, they were forgiving.
His cats and his toys never once chided him
For not eating peas, or for slicing his limbs.
The boy became a man, chronologically, at least.
The cesspool of fear had birthed him a beast.
Time and again, he longed for one taste
Of the life that passed him by with such haste.
One fateful day, at the crux of a decision
The man realized that this was perdition.
To have such a life, without truly partaking
Was something that set his soul to aching.
From that day on, the man walked with such power.
‘Round in circles, perhaps, but not tarrying an hour.
Because to live without living, the man was sure,
Was beyond the worst pain that he could endure.
So when you wonder what the man’s doing,
why he is grinning, and where he is going,
just remember the child, full of fear, locked in the closet,
I fucking won’t be again, until I’m locked in a casket.
It is better to walk around in circles than to never walk at all.
You know, I read on a online quiz recently a question that struck a chord in me. It asked me, "What is your worst fear?" To which I answered, truthfully, "Missing out on living life to its fullest." (or something similar to that, anyway). I didn't realize until my muse put words to feelings just how true that is. Not only did the quiz mention it, but certain friends of mine have recently commented on this (which you will all see the correlation soon enough, I guess).
I like me the way I am. I fear missing out on living life to its fullest more, although only slightly more, than I fear making mistakes that will affect me forever. I'm on a goddam seesaw, running back and forth, trying to keep it even. Its only a matter of time before I trip over the fulcrum and split my lip on the ass-worn wood. Actually, that's not true. It just sometimes happens that sometimes the seesaw sinks to the ground on one side or the other with a bowel-shaking thump. Which is ok. I managed to right the situation the last time the seesaw thumped, and I'll be able to do it again. Anyway, enough boring old prose. I hope this helps people understand what I've just rambled about. If not, it should still be enjoyable. If you don't enjoy it, then you obviously don't appreciate art and ought to go watch Rosanne reruns until your aorta bursts. I'm gonna go try and get some sleep.
Evening at the Masquerade - 12/3/02 - 12/3/02
The man walks with a powerful stride.
Powerful, and confident, so as to hide
Beneath this exterior, this facade of cheer,
A roiling and boiling cesspool of fear.
This fear has crippled the man most his life,
Kept him from happiness, but also from strife.
The only way to keep the fear in place
Is to talk with a grin plastered to his face.
The fear eats away at the man’s very soul.
Was what he did right? Did he lose control?
There are so many options for him to choose;
Some may be right. Others - he’ll lose.
Picture a boy, at the tender age of eight,
locking himself in a closet to avoid such weight.
The fear drew him inward, he avoided the looks
Of his parents; instead, he drowned in his books.
As the boy grew, he missed out on living.
His best friends were fictional, they were forgiving.
His cats and his toys never once chided him
For not eating peas, or for slicing his limbs.
The boy became a man, chronologically, at least.
The cesspool of fear had birthed him a beast.
Time and again, he longed for one taste
Of the life that passed him by with such haste.
One fateful day, at the crux of a decision
The man realized that this was perdition.
To have such a life, without truly partaking
Was something that set his soul to aching.
From that day on, the man walked with such power.
‘Round in circles, perhaps, but not tarrying an hour.
Because to live without living, the man was sure,
Was beyond the worst pain that he could endure.
So when you wonder what the man’s doing,
why he is grinning, and where he is going,
just remember the child, full of fear, locked in the closet,
I fucking won’t be again, until I’m locked in a casket.
It is better to walk around in circles than to never walk at all.