1. |
Oslo, 1990
02:05
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Late at night I feel an overwhelming wave of dread blanket me as I lie in bed, the night air drifting through the subconscious windows of my mind, taking a hold of my broken face and diving further into the depths of my eyes, overtly grazing over any risk of consequential error. I’m who I don’t want to be. I’m who I don’t want to become. I’m constantly drowning in failed ambitions and hope. This life will be the death of me.
The sting of the pacific air made my hair unaware of the consequences of taking a break from being attached to my skull. This life will be the death of me.
Lying in my room, teasing myself with air as the life is choked out of me. Excuses of why I can’t go out. Reasons I can’t see you tonight. I’ll never be home again.
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2. |
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3. |
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I am alone. These hands instruct this forgettable and forgeable mind, speakers sounding around and around me tell me: “Give up. You’re nothing.”
Brick after brick, cold to the touch. I can’t take this. Am I good enough? Unclench your fists. Why are you so rough? I can’t take this shit. Am I good enough?
I am the salt in the air. You are the salt in my wounds. You are the sound of despair; and surrounding yourself with my room, you are the salt in my wounds. Surround yourself with my room.
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4. |
Satellite Field
03:15
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Before you, I would build meaningful relationships with people who seemed to me to have goals and opinions. I would tie myself to them the way telephone poles connect to one another, needing the next as an outlet and needing the last for its energy.
But over a long period of time, too much of it, I realized that you weren’t a pole at all. You were the source that fed them all and needed nothing, more energy flowing from you than from anything and using your own energy to make more.
A self-contained cycle like the sun, and like the sun the only reason you burned at all was to stay alive, and like the sun you burned for yourself and nothing else, not even the things that grew up because of you.
And like a meteor or an asteroid I could fly into you and expect a reaction, and like the sun you would flare for a moment, but in the magnitude of your everlasting self-provoked solitude, it would have no lasting effect.
And I made you cry in front of me once or twice, and I cried in front of you, but the next time you rose, like the sun you seemed to have forgotten about the day before all together. And like the sun you would only burst and die after you hardly longer take any more of your own being, but that is the reason for your demise, no other beings, nothing else at all.
And so I’ve learned that if the sun doesn’t care about how I feel about it, then I shouldn’t worry about what it thinks or doesn’t think about what I think of it. I should ignore it completely.
And now I live at night, forever thinking about how I grew in the sun and appreciating that and even appreciating that other people now share those experiences with it but never wanting anything else ever again.
From you.
I said I wouldn’t write any more songs about you, and I wasn’t lying. This song is about the sun.
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5. |
Trade Winds
01:56
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Buying sleeping pills from my neighbor’s teenage son, I tell myself, “give up.” I tell myself: “You were better and you were a better person when you weren’t so alone and when you ascended from your sheets for someone else.”
I tell myself: “I am not to blame for the constant amalgamation of the suicidal thoughts that run through your head and hers.”
And I am not alive, and I am an igneous stone formed from the meteor’s strike, formed from the volcano’s cries, formed out of salt in the skies. Form my misshapen face from sleeping pills, burning my eyes.
My eye lashes out at the tendency to close and make dreams. My mind lashes out at the cataclysmic sheets and their seams. Why can’t I forget about you? And your lacerational lies, conversational ties, salinization of the lines that you have crafted under my eyes.
And the first wind from your twisted and swollen diaphragm came over my oceans and filled me with joy.
And the second wind from your lungs and your bronchial tress knocked the leaves off of mine. I felt cold.
But your third wind came like a thief in the day, and I heard it inside but I couldn’t turn off the light from the sun.
I couldn’t turn off the sunlight.
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