I'm changing my opinion of my favorite song of mine from "Fabulous Dream" to "All I Want." "All I Want" is the most-true song I will ever write. Not a trace of poetry anywhere near it. It's more like a crime scene set to music.
Remember the fallen soldiers in the battle for domestic bliss. All those great players who folded and got married. I got married, twice, but never folded. It's not a good thing. You're supposed to fold when you get married. That's one of the reasons you do it. You're supposed to be a paper airplane built for 2. But I didn't fold. Whoever she was, she was never as important to me as my music. One idol has always been more important to me than the other. Not anymore, but at the time. I have long-since thrown my idols into the candy warzone. But being married twice is to be a veteran of hell. They don't give out patches, medals, or ribbons in hell.
Only scars.
Beware the siren song of the party balloons, bouncing around on the ceiling of compromise. They think they're soaring. They think they're dancing. They think they're in orbit. But they're just high. I bounced around on the ceiling with all the other overinflated circus rejects for years. They don't give out patches, medals, or ribbons for winning the dance contest on the drop-ceiling of spiritual compromise.
Only scars.
While we're nowhere near the topic, remember, your soul doesn't fit in your pants. If you compress your soul into a ZIP drive in your pants, and unzip it, your soul will spill out all over the floor. Keep your pants on. Your soul will thank you.
The world is a bloodbath. The birds are singing a funeral dirge. I can't wait to go to the land from whence their songs are derived. Today was, well, I don't want to say "what it was," or "what it is," because then that's what it will be. You have to tread lightly. Suffice it to say, it was unpleasant.
Today I took a convalescent stroll through La Condesa. I feel better. The cool thing about living in the city is you can walk around and get some dirty air. It helped. I found my center, and some tacos. I saved one for my cat. He ate almost all the meat from a whole entire taco. But I found my center, walking through the hostile vibes on the convalescent streets. It felt like Paris in the summer. I don't know. Does Paris have palm trees?
Cuz it should.
Anyway. Thanks for letting me bleed out on the floor. 2 days of flailing in a puddle of horrendipity is my limit. It isn't necessary to clean up the blood, or even study the puddles and stains. The blood disappears when it dries. It flies away like a single-engine paper airplane built for one. Divorced-engine airplanes are less mechanically sound, but they have been known to fly. So don't give up. The sun is shining like a symbol of forgiveness down upon the hateful streets. The taco men are preaching. The birds are singing of a better world. So don't bother cleaning up the blood. Soon, it will evaporate and leave no trace.
I can't wait to get out of here. It's all I want. The world will be over soon enough.
Perhaps today.
To God,
N
