I keep my Tom Waits albums in the back of my collection; like some secret I want hidden, but can't put too far out of reach. I can't always stay with Tom. I'm not always able to take my troubles to him. I'm deathly afraid of drinking with his voice floating in the background air.
Tom doesn't listen.
Tom doesn't get it.
Tom doesn't care.
Tom's not much of a good friend at all, really.
But he's always in the same place when I go there, and there is a form of... comfort in that knowledge -- although I'm not sure I could explain it clearly if I was asked to.
I need to write. I want to write. But I feel so... frozen, lately.
I still make people laugh. I still care. I still love.
But it all seems so hard sometimes, like a stuck piano key. The one that takes force to play, the one that feels old, and out of place. Usually hiding in the upper or lower registers, it looks just like all the other ivories, but when you reach out to touch, it pushes back. If you lean muscle to it, it will tone - but the sound that you get is harsh, overstruck, and somehow not like the music that came before. But you can't help but focus on that note. Pressing the key over and over, hoping to loosen it. Hoping to get the tone you want to hear, even though the note is the same every time.
To find beauty in a single note is a special thing, especially when that note can seem harsh, out of place, and ugly when held to up to seraphic lights. But sometimes you're able to see in the dark. Sometimes you're able to find beauty in what little light filters through fogged windows on a cold morning in this supposed winterless wonderland.
Tom doesn't listen.
Tom doesn't get it.
Tom doesn't care.
Tom's not much of a good friend at all, really.
But he's always in the same place when I go there, and there is a form of... comfort in that knowledge -- although I'm not sure I could explain it clearly if I was asked to.
I need to write. I want to write. But I feel so... frozen, lately.
I still make people laugh. I still care. I still love.
But it all seems so hard sometimes, like a stuck piano key. The one that takes force to play, the one that feels old, and out of place. Usually hiding in the upper or lower registers, it looks just like all the other ivories, but when you reach out to touch, it pushes back. If you lean muscle to it, it will tone - but the sound that you get is harsh, overstruck, and somehow not like the music that came before. But you can't help but focus on that note. Pressing the key over and over, hoping to loosen it. Hoping to get the tone you want to hear, even though the note is the same every time.
To find beauty in a single note is a special thing, especially when that note can seem harsh, out of place, and ugly when held to up to seraphic lights. But sometimes you're able to see in the dark. Sometimes you're able to find beauty in what little light filters through fogged windows on a cold morning in this supposed winterless wonderland.
- I'm here.
I'm still here.
I haven't gone anywhere.
I'm just... hanging with Tom right now, is all.