Crashbox

Sometimes the only way to describe one's state of mind is with music.

Quite suddenly and for reasons not apparent to most I am very lonely. God does this to us once in a while: lets us make our excuses, pretend to be jolly, careen down a path of thoughtless enjoyment and laughter...then with all the abruptness of unexpectedly hitting pause at the climax of a movie, it's all gone. And though very little has actually changed, something buried deep---something precious and painful, slips through the bars of the soul and is lost in the expanse.

Slow-picking fingers will do for me tonight. And a voice thick with cigarette smoke and the sorrow of long, searching years.

The realization washes over, as it has before: there is no justification. No compensation for this lack. The caressing arms of family and loved ones have lost their comfort. For it is our own individual humanity that matters now. Why are we sinners? Why are we not meant to be here? Must we always turn from the joy and beauty that stands so prettily before us? We know the Truth, and let we long...long to love this world and it's promised contentment.

It's an old guitar, with the scars of long years dragging behind this poor bastard as he has tried to find himself among the empties, abandoned highways, and various sad girls. Tried and failed. But woven into his weeping lyrics are the well-guarded secrets and wisdoms he has learned though the ages...He is not so far away as he thinks. Listen, he speaks almost a whisper