So I have thought a lot about friends lately. A friend of mine stopped in to hand me some music today. He said he’s had some trouble. I guess the trouble is with his instrument, he says is that it’s too pop-y. I suppose his worry is that the music will be the same. He says the trouble goes further though; it touches upon women, civil liberties, all those things which are so meaningless until you don’t have them. Not having them isn’t always terrible. It’s only when you taste freedom, like a well lit cigarette; or really love someone, and then look into their eyes and wonder which one of you is captive. When the well lit dream is pulled away, or her eyes try to spin herself and hisself into some sort of it’s never been that way; I suppose this is when things really hurt the soul. It’s not the body that is hurt, it’s the soul. It’s that sleeping self inside of your thoughts, who you whisper to in nervous moments. That little self that says you can or can’t; or makes you worry; or chants a sad song with you until he dances, and then you’re free. Then and then that devil dances, and he’s beautiful when he dances and chants. he tapps his toes in such a peculiar way that it almost makes you believe it’s you. Just you, sitting alone on a chair, looking outward upon all the stares. These passing strangers, friends and family. They’ve never met that little whisperer, that’s how you know when you’re looking outward. I suppose the only thing to do then is laugh. What a bunch of bullshit you and that little fucker go through. Just you and him and everyone else.
