They rally round the family, with a pocket full of shells.
Different visions of grey exist in a stolid black and white frame. Much the same are the stories of the children, their world of monochrome silhouetting is something they strive not to taint with grey of imperfection, what is what is, and if it's not working out, they're in the wrong. Nine to five, five to nine; they'll breathe the healthy unpolluted air, what else could they do? It's all they've ever known, and until such point where their comfortable world is wrenched from under them; nothing can change. But for those who breathe smoke, if the choice is to not to exhale it over those suffering from clean air, how is it possible to be better than those who've made the pure brethren this way?
They rally round the gas station, with a pocket full of shells.
He exists in troubled times, chained within his soundproof cell; the only modus of communication being via indistinguishable, interchangeable taps on his glass. Others find stolid information without source in these taps; a commonality of comfort, deprived of any remote sense of intimacy. Unfortunately, within the imperfections of said glass, the captive may reflect on his loneliness; and wonder for his life why nobody can understand what he's truly trying to express.
They rally round the loneliness, with a pocket full of shells.
His comfort zone is impenetrable, he's cleaned it thoroughly and would never jeopardize it's sanctity by leaving it to fall to disrepair. He have no clue why "The Girl" hasn't stopped by yet, she'd make her place well known on his mantelpiece and everything would be alright. Yet from never leaving his cell, he's never had the opportunity to learn how to let her in; so day by day, he flounders in emptiness, oblivious to why there is an internal tarnish over his mental palace while the external frame is exactly what has always been expected and embraced by all authorative figures of the past.
They rally round their kennel, with a pocket full of shells.
Like a dog in a buried kennel, there is smothering solitary that awaits him every day after work; solitary imposed by fear; if only the pain of rejection was easier to deal with than a life of mundane chores and days of emptiness. His stories would be given to any soul who was able enter his cell; but all he can do until then is way for that figure to sedate the guards, rush the locks and show them out with an ashen face and a self cigarette smirk.
They rally round the childhood, with a pocket full of shells.
Without the threat of death, there's no reason to live at all. Reclining in his cell, he's always been protected against all threat. He's had to create his own problems for his meagre amount of motivation; the problems he has with his own self deconstruction and shame from what he finds. He's had a normal life, though, lived day by day on the teachings of his authorative masters, learned subservience from his beliefs, yet still begs silently for enlightenment, anything to save him from his personal Hell. It's all he's ever known, and he knows not the long term ramifications; internal atrophy. His problems must be from something external, Mohammed forbid it's his own hands around his neck.
They rally round the hatred, with a pocket full of shells.
The negative emotions have always made him feel that little bit more alive; but every one of those experiences have made him feel far too unclean. Just another reason to recluse in shame, always another reason to recluse in shame. The tiny crush he had on the girl who would never pay them the time of day, for instance. Every time he see her with a man in control; there was only doubt, a reason to hire more guards and seethe with self loathing. It's all well and good to be okay with helplessness, he laments, there are some things you just can't change. One day, though, he'll look to the sky. Only after someone drags him kicking and screaming into a life of failures and risks, but when the pain and hatred resides, he'll adapt, kill his Templars and never look back.
They rally round their discord, with a pocket full of shells.
Life is give and take, he gives his servitude so that he can feel useful; a fulfilling life of being needed, wanted, validated or recognized for his hard hours. His family and the few friends he's had have told him so. The ones he appeals to, however, will never fire at his guards, in fact, they'll give him more than enough reasons to have them. Never a dirty face; that pain is unbearable, if they were to think him less than he thinks himself, life would end. So he still sits and waits, every passing day unmasking his discord. Something needs to be done, lest he die without ever even existing to those he so hard wanted to be and have on side.
They rally round their funeral, with a pocket full of shells.
Envisioning the future, he start to wonder his meaning in all this. People have heard him speak, watched him acted, but did they ever truly known him? Could they? Stepping outside himself, he ponders the epitaphs; the talk of how he was, how he functioned, nothing ever being said about what he stood for, what his deepest secrets were; even that time he saw the most beautiful of all carnations under an Indian Summer sky. How could it be? They'd never let the speakers in, in fear of what they'd find beside the pretty outlaying furnishings.
They rally round the present, with a pocket full of shells.
It's not working, he's realized that they can't go on, and there's not a damned thing he can do about it. He's never been able to act because he's never been able to learn how; he's never been able to learn how because there's never been anyone there to teach him how to; and there's never been anyone to teach him because he's never figured out how to vacate his cells. He knows it's time for change, and the second he catches a break or gets a hand, he'll know what to do.
Suraj, I've rallied round your targets, now spend those fucking shells.
They rally round the gas station, with a pocket full of shells.
He exists in troubled times, chained within his soundproof cell; the only modus of communication being via indistinguishable, interchangeable taps on his glass. Others find stolid information without source in these taps; a commonality of comfort, deprived of any remote sense of intimacy. Unfortunately, within the imperfections of said glass, the captive may reflect on his loneliness; and wonder for his life why nobody can understand what he's truly trying to express.
They rally round the loneliness, with a pocket full of shells.
His comfort zone is impenetrable, he's cleaned it thoroughly and would never jeopardize it's sanctity by leaving it to fall to disrepair. He have no clue why "The Girl" hasn't stopped by yet, she'd make her place well known on his mantelpiece and everything would be alright. Yet from never leaving his cell, he's never had the opportunity to learn how to let her in; so day by day, he flounders in emptiness, oblivious to why there is an internal tarnish over his mental palace while the external frame is exactly what has always been expected and embraced by all authorative figures of the past.
They rally round their kennel, with a pocket full of shells.
Like a dog in a buried kennel, there is smothering solitary that awaits him every day after work; solitary imposed by fear; if only the pain of rejection was easier to deal with than a life of mundane chores and days of emptiness. His stories would be given to any soul who was able enter his cell; but all he can do until then is way for that figure to sedate the guards, rush the locks and show them out with an ashen face and a self cigarette smirk.
They rally round the childhood, with a pocket full of shells.
Without the threat of death, there's no reason to live at all. Reclining in his cell, he's always been protected against all threat. He's had to create his own problems for his meagre amount of motivation; the problems he has with his own self deconstruction and shame from what he finds. He's had a normal life, though, lived day by day on the teachings of his authorative masters, learned subservience from his beliefs, yet still begs silently for enlightenment, anything to save him from his personal Hell. It's all he's ever known, and he knows not the long term ramifications; internal atrophy. His problems must be from something external, Mohammed forbid it's his own hands around his neck.
They rally round the hatred, with a pocket full of shells.
The negative emotions have always made him feel that little bit more alive; but every one of those experiences have made him feel far too unclean. Just another reason to recluse in shame, always another reason to recluse in shame. The tiny crush he had on the girl who would never pay them the time of day, for instance. Every time he see her with a man in control; there was only doubt, a reason to hire more guards and seethe with self loathing. It's all well and good to be okay with helplessness, he laments, there are some things you just can't change. One day, though, he'll look to the sky. Only after someone drags him kicking and screaming into a life of failures and risks, but when the pain and hatred resides, he'll adapt, kill his Templars and never look back.
They rally round their discord, with a pocket full of shells.
Life is give and take, he gives his servitude so that he can feel useful; a fulfilling life of being needed, wanted, validated or recognized for his hard hours. His family and the few friends he's had have told him so. The ones he appeals to, however, will never fire at his guards, in fact, they'll give him more than enough reasons to have them. Never a dirty face; that pain is unbearable, if they were to think him less than he thinks himself, life would end. So he still sits and waits, every passing day unmasking his discord. Something needs to be done, lest he die without ever even existing to those he so hard wanted to be and have on side.
They rally round their funeral, with a pocket full of shells.
Envisioning the future, he start to wonder his meaning in all this. People have heard him speak, watched him acted, but did they ever truly known him? Could they? Stepping outside himself, he ponders the epitaphs; the talk of how he was, how he functioned, nothing ever being said about what he stood for, what his deepest secrets were; even that time he saw the most beautiful of all carnations under an Indian Summer sky. How could it be? They'd never let the speakers in, in fear of what they'd find beside the pretty outlaying furnishings.
They rally round the present, with a pocket full of shells.
It's not working, he's realized that they can't go on, and there's not a damned thing he can do about it. He's never been able to act because he's never been able to learn how; he's never been able to learn how because there's never been anyone there to teach him how to; and there's never been anyone to teach him because he's never figured out how to vacate his cells. He knows it's time for change, and the second he catches a break or gets a hand, he'll know what to do.
Suraj, I've rallied round your targets, now spend those fucking shells.