sometimes some lyrics just speak to you..

while you were sleeping, they knocked upon your door.
while you were sleeping, they crept along your floor.
while you were sleeping, they rifled through your drawers.
while you were sleeping, it was no concern of yours.

on this world that spins on selfishness and lies;
such an awful sight; you close your eyes.

while you were sleeping, they all passed through,
you entertained fair-weathered friends and pretenders.
while you were sleeping, they all left you,
without a penny for services rendered.

i never sleep, because sleep is the cousin of death.

while you were sleeping, they torched your home,
tore the clothes off from the body you surrendered.
while you were sleeping, they all left you,
without a penny for services rendered.

just because you turn away from everything, doesn't mean to say it isn't happening.

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

sonic boom six is unbelievable.

this is completely anti-thetical to my last post, i know, but..

-gives life the finger-

F***. YOU.

do you know what i need?

i need God.

writing.

i've been advised by so many of my predecessors in the tradition of writing that writing can act as a form of catharsis-- a form of relief, of altering your perspective on things and finding new meaning in life that you can only find in retrospect, and perhaps that's what i need now.

in a perverse way, i'm really glad no one reads my blog anymore-- it means i can be candid, and the honesty could perhaps help me find a way out of this.. doldrum-like existence.

you know, when you find something, or someone, that you trust in implicitly, without even a hint of a doubt: no questions, no hesitations-- you jump right in, you find your 'groove', and you meander along that 'groove', rejoicing in the feeling of unabashed excitement and exhilaration that it gives you. you put your whole heart and soul into it, keeping nothing to yourself, sharing your deepest thoughts and feelings, baring your soul, as the cliche stands, and the headiness; the rush; the emotions that make your heart race and your head spin-- that gives you adrenaline. it gives you momentum. force. you move. you keep moving. you never look back.

and one day, as things undoubtedly will, things cave in. people turn their backs, deservedly so or not, and you're left stranded in the middle of this... 'groove'. you can't head towards the sides, because you've run so long in this 'groove' that the slopes are too steep to climb. you can't go forward, because you've lost momentum, and you no longer have strength to carve a path out for yourself. you turn your head, wondering if you could head back, but all you see is this.. 'groove'. this straight, unending path that disappears over the horizon, the start of which you can't even see anymore.

what do you do?

you, as all people do, sit. and wait-- for someone to come rescue you. fly over in a helicopter, maybe. drop you a rope, maybe. flood the 'groove' and come floating along in a little paper dinghy, maybe. whatever. the mechanics aren't particularly important. the important thing is that you wait. and you hope: for a miracle, so you can escape the situation. but the sad truth of the matter is-- there is no helicopter, there is no rope, and there certainly is no magically floating paper dinghy. that's it, baby. end of the road.

so you sit, and you wait. and you wish. wishful thinking, more likely. the tedium of the days of waiting begins to get to you, and you no longer remember what day it is, or what day it was when you sat and began waiting for help. and eventually you get up; you begin crawling, maybe, because your legs don't work anymore. you crawl.. and eventually you stand, and begin to walk. and slowly, slowly, you start to run. back along that 'groove', towards that faraway starting point again; retracing your steps, hoping to find someplace, ANY PLACE, where there was a crossroad that you hadn't taken.

you eventually find it; the crossroads, and the uncarved 'grooves', and you choose another one, hoping this time it'd take you someplace new. someplace where you wouldn't be stranded. and people join you. and you run again, along that new 'groove', that new path, as FAR AWAY from the old 'groove' as possible, knowing that's where you don't want to end up again.

but the truth of the matter is-- you'll always end up there again. all 'grooves' lead to the same place. you sitting in a ditch, waiting for someone to rescue you.

and no one will, baby, no one will.

it's cyclical. or perhaps not. perhaps it's this neverending set of 'grooves' heading in different directions, and you keep running back to that set of crossroads, trying to find another path you can get onto, so you can get as far away from the previous path as you possibly can. but where does the running end? the 'grooves' never head towards a destination, just.. AWAY from the previous 'groove'. and you're never running to-- you're running away.

so what is the point to all of this? do you stop running? just sit down right there in the middle of those crossroads and mope? or choose another 'groove', with another set of people, and keep hoping for the best, like a silly little carebear heading down that magical rainbow to whoknowswhere? or do you sit there, in the middle of that old, tarnished, worn out 'groove', and wait for that fantastical paper dinghy? or do you climb out of the 'groove', all by yourself, KNOWING.. that it's going to be a lonely journey. no one's there beside you to give you momentum, to make the groove go forward and grow, so it's not going to be much fun on that ride. you walk, alone, barely making a dent in the sand, and you know you're all by yourself-- but at least you're on flat ground. and you can walk wherever you want. front, back, left, right-- you've got free rein, baby.

so tell me, what do you do?

homesickness.

i think sometimes when you get a little older in life, shaped by experiences, by taking stock of what you've achieved, you learn things that are secondary to what you set out to learn in the first place.

you learn that homesickness doesn't necessarily manifest itself in some sort of overwhelming outpour of nostalgic emotion. it's occasionally, and for me, more frequently, this visceral, physical pull towards the idea of return-- and the hormonal, emotional and mental imbalances that that creates.

it's a tug-o-war, really, the idea of balancing two lives; the predominance of one would undeniably place the other in the shadow.. and sometimes you realise that it IS that delicate balance that you have to achieve. the knowing when to let go of one and to go to the other; the careful arrangement of both your lives around a disciplined schedule and NOT detracting from that, in order to achieve the optimum level of enjoyment of both arenas.

using clinical language, i've learnt from james joyce, is a nice way of detaching yourself from your emotions so as to correctly evaluate the situation.

hmm. not working.

still miserable.

want to go home.

scrubs has the answer to everything.

i can't get to sleep;
i think about the implications
of diving in too deep
and possibly the complications.
especially at night,
i worry over situations
i know i'll be alright
perhaps it's just imagination!

day after day it reappears;
night after night my heartbeat shows the fear;
ghosts appear and fade away.

alone between the sheets:
only brings exasperation--
it's time to walk the streets;
smell the desperation.
at least there's pretty lights,
and though there's little variation,
it nullifies the night from overkill.

day after day it reappears;
night after night my heartbeat shows the fear;
ghosts appear and fade away.
come back another day!

i can't get to sleep;
i think about the implications
of diving in too deep,
and possibly the complications,
especially at night,
i worry over situations
i know i'll be alright
it's just overkill.