Oct. 9th, 2010

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It's a lonely line out, and I don't want the cause, because I can't keep the cause.

Start 30ft above nothing, a platofrm in the air, and we're just going nowhere. Pan around, close in on the action, everything slows down as we watch each motion in painstaking detail. It's a narrow space, gravel ground and bound around and around and around by chain and barbed wire, hemming you in. Duck and dodge, kicking up sand, keeping your fists up in a boxing guard. Strike out and miss, leave yourself open and one good hit could take you down. But you won't let that hit land. You have to dream awake.

Cut, a control room somewhere remote from the action. Take us under now. Sitting in a cheap faux leather seat, watching the action through rows of video monitors, distant and callous judging. Watch yourself spin to the right as the blow lands, spit blood and go down.

We have to dream awake. Have to dream awake. Take us under now. Take us under now.  Violins go here, and maybe some other strings, it's all terribly meta. Am I describing or commenting on? It's hard to tell. There's a warning, a warning, warning. To everyone there comes... to everyone who found something.

It's a nostalgic sound, an old song that no one will get the reference to. Emotions played out in 6/4. Close your eyes and you're back on that field, somehere in the midlands, a thousand strangers yelling. More than a thousand, but you have no number for them that will sound poetic. Catch the ball, run, collide, fall. Only at the end do you learn you broke two ribs. For the fifty minutes til then you keep running, these chords playing in your head, in your heart, living out the underdog. It's a beautiful sound and you miss those moment.

Jump ahead, years gone by. How many? Who knows. Evening time, mid-November, vehicle slowly pulling across the river. Across the bridge. The sun went down half an hour ago, stars are rising. You cross at Waterloo, the light from the book market and the German winter festival rising behind you, spilling out across the river. It is the sound of huddling beneath a grey blanket in an empty hospital, listening to everyone in the 20th century die. You carry a lot of misery, you'll deal with it, but there's no denying it's there. Right now it doesn't matter. You exist in that brief note caught between moments. You are the chord that rides the riff. Epic instrumentation exists to make you happen.

Jump ahead, years later. You have passed through horror and out the other side. It was bad and then it got worse, but you survived. Your friends are adults now, occupying buildings, light spilling out onto the street, onto the river. They've made this city into their own shape, moulding urban wonder into personal magic. Together you pierce the idol with the sharpened neck of an electric guitar. Embrace it, live it, watch the clock tick on.

I love everyone.

But that's not accurate. There is more and less. There is always more and less, one can never cut it down enough or expand it out enough. There is always a border case, always a judgment waiting to be made. We are all full of wonder, all waiting to share it. If you do not know how amazing you are, tell me so, and I will inform you. By existing, by thinking and feeling and being, you are a thing of beauty. With every sunrise, we are a thing of joy.

There are a thousand skies, a million breaths, but we all move beneath the same sun. You are the best that there ever needs to be.

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terminusest

October 2010

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