Another morning. ..
Habit. .. Life is a habit. I wake before my alarm clock every morning - look at the time and sigh. I am robbed of even a few extra minutes of precious sleep - but then I drift off again into a deeper sleep that is then interuprted by the piercing wail of the clock. . .
Three or four daydreams pass through my mind - none of which involve going to work - but I get up and take a shower anyway and get dressed. In the living room, I see my guitar propped up on the couch and the table is strewn with bits of paper, change, empty beer bottles (from the night before), bits of ash and the burned ends of incense.
Teddy looks at me with sad eyes from his little rocking chair that used to be mine when I was nearly as small as he is. I think I love that bear more than I love any human being.
On the subway I fight off fits of claustrophobia - not something I usually suffer from - but occasionally I just want to scream and thrash and turn the "W" train into a bloody mosh pit.
At times the sea of humanity fills me with a awe for life and a sense of the divine - and other times it strikes me as a plague that should be wiped out. . .I pray for God to throw a stone at the earth and do us like the dinosaurs. . . except that dinosaurs did nothing to deserve their fate - but then again in the scope of the entirety of the universe what can even the entire human race do that means anything at all?
Last night I looked in the mirror, drunk despite my recurring flu-like symptoms and I said, "Osvaldo, you will never be famous. Your music will never reach people. You will live and die in anonymity just like the vast majority of people on this earth. There are thousands if not millions of people in the world with as much talent, intelligence and charisma as you have if not more than you have and they too will pass from this place and be forgotten. You are not special. You are not special."
Three or four daydreams pass through my mind - none of which involve going to work - but I get up and take a shower anyway and get dressed. In the living room, I see my guitar propped up on the couch and the table is strewn with bits of paper, change, empty beer bottles (from the night before), bits of ash and the burned ends of incense.
Teddy looks at me with sad eyes from his little rocking chair that used to be mine when I was nearly as small as he is. I think I love that bear more than I love any human being.
On the subway I fight off fits of claustrophobia - not something I usually suffer from - but occasionally I just want to scream and thrash and turn the "W" train into a bloody mosh pit.
At times the sea of humanity fills me with a awe for life and a sense of the divine - and other times it strikes me as a plague that should be wiped out. . .I pray for God to throw a stone at the earth and do us like the dinosaurs. . . except that dinosaurs did nothing to deserve their fate - but then again in the scope of the entirety of the universe what can even the entire human race do that means anything at all?
Last night I looked in the mirror, drunk despite my recurring flu-like symptoms and I said, "Osvaldo, you will never be famous. Your music will never reach people. You will live and die in anonymity just like the vast majority of people on this earth. There are thousands if not millions of people in the world with as much talent, intelligence and charisma as you have if not more than you have and they too will pass from this place and be forgotten. You are not special. You are not special."