Restless and Mocking (4/2/08)

I am realizing why I am so numb… nothing is speaking to me.

Pop radio can inspire the spirit, whether its changing your mood or a companion when shopping…
Perhaps you have an aching heart and need solace in your solitude. The language and sound emits a universal ambience of the time and speaks to the contemporary woes and highs. It’s everyone’s friend.

It’s this last detail as to why I am not finding any comfort. The themes and sounds are rendered irreverent due to the story that swallows my inner sanctum. My friend isn’t everyone’s friend… for my friend, though living among us is invisible. He’s hiding. He doesn’t want to be seen. He’s in the darkness at all hours, even the day. He’s captive. He is not himself. I want to write the lyrics to the twisted little 4 minute number that could be my partner, but I don’t know how the melody would play.

You see, I am restless. For I do not know what to do. My sheltered comfort is consumed in the knowledge that corruption has carried someone of great value away from me. I don’t know how to handle. Nothing accessible to the masses can sooth this.

When you have the knowledge of a great evil or grander ill, the next step is to do what? This corruption is greater than you and outside of the popular base.

I think of him entering the night, looking for his high. I think of the shady characters that will cross his path. I think of who will lure him in further… perhaps someone who appears cleaner, less enabled… but alas much further down hell’s road.

I think of his sexual confusion and alienation with popular culture, and that of the drug abyss. I think of him making desperate attempts to either connect with death, people, and sex and how tempting to let all those needs collide.

Who will he wake up too? Where? Can his soul navigate to safe corners? Is he rotting inside? Is he seeking help? How can one intervene? He is not my family… they threw him from one foster home to the next. How this emptiness with connectiveness cascades over into searching for a mother, a father, a sister, a brother… how this then cascades over, on the high, to sex with a man or woman, or both, with many, with multiple, feeling protected… yet having sex unprotected.

How do you save a soul that their language suggests being saved is not what they want? Or in not being wanted, are they actually telling you the opposite?

I think of how safe he was with me. Doesn’t he long for that? Was I just some fancy window dressing he couldn’t relate to? Were my pillows and comforters just lounged in for the moment? Is the cold, the concrete, and the undulation the inner body has manufactured the new comfort? Is he alive?
Is he slumped over bundled in his worn jacket with his headphones playing his Tu Pac? Is he in his own bed or some crawl space?

He carries few belongings. His identity is unimportant to him. Will his identity be unimportant to the dealer that deals his final hit or more unimportant to the one who discovers his body?

Or will he triumph? Is his body conspiring to secretly beat this… does dawn emit a secret light and power that tells the soul to save itself ? Or is dawn just another form of mockery, which exudes light that drives him into further darkness.

Do the morning birds sing to his blossoming or speak of his death?

If I can’t sleep, how can he? If he passes, how can I justify my being… how I had some valuable knowledge, but did nothing but choreography scenes in my head of his heart ache and triumph?

I’d rather be a savior than an artist. I’d rather his soul be saved than me write another thought.

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