Junk Food and Gasoline

A world that sends you reeling from decimated dreams. Your misery and hate kill us all. So paint it black and take it back. Let’s shout it loud and clear. Defiant to the end we hear the call…to carry on.  ~My Chemical Romance

Traveler Sunshine The Clouds Wilderness

Let me tell you a little story about myself.
A little story that shows how I think.
It is presented in lots of speak that doesn’t stream together.
But who cares, let’s have a look.

Traveling down a road he looks to the other side and decides to go off on his own.
A motivation brought on by the longing of something different.
Yet, when the road is back into view, he runs back to it with his tail between his legs.
A coward some might say, others might call it a tactical retreat.

This man takes  a few steps into the wild and sees a light.
One that defines and shines in the sky, both at night and during day.
When he is adrift it lights his way and when he hides it brings out what he wants to keep hidden.
An open book that is hidden well behind this tree.

Next, he sees himself in a parade.
Colors are everywhere, and then in the distance he sees it.
It looks like hope… hope in the form of a black shrouded figure running off into the crowd.
The parade is going swell, so he decides not to pursue the silent observer.

The floats fly high in the sky.
Held up by the dreams of those around him.
Their colors represent the wins he wishes he could have.
Also illuminating the sin that is always in his head.

One day the shrouded man came to his door.
He knocked and knocked, but he did not answer its call.
Glued to TV screens and gasoline…
Junk food and short bursts of ecstasy that mean nothing in the long run.

The knocking began coming at least once a week.
Always lasting for hours at a time and sometimes he answers the call.
A wave hits his chest when he does for the entirety of the worlds oceans crash into his apartment.
He drowns and lives again as the shrouded mans’ cloak disrobes to reveal the light that is always present.

The end of our tale is close and the climax may come.
The problem with that though is the story is continuous and I don’t know how it will end.
The only part I am sure about is that the other side will be there with open arms,
But what will need to be endured to get there is not in my control.

He sits still, the only thing moving is his mouth.
Singing a song about hope, love, death, pain, and life.
An eclectic mix of power pop, metal, and rock.
A blending of ideals, looking for a balance of learning about other views and solidifying his personal beliefs.

He sits and he sings.
He sings because it is worth it to him to understand the melodies that have been given to him.
He sits and he weeps.
He weeps for the chance to make a difference, or for happiness and joy that can sometimes ring true.

He is sitting their singing the songs of saints and sinners.
Singing the songs of pain from the unbelievers.
Singing the songs of hope and redemption.
He waits for the knock to come and the ocean to meet him once more.

I look and I see the story unfolding all around me.
Wondering if it is just me who sees their life in metaphorical agony?
Wondering if it is just me who examines their hopes and dreams in context of melodies?
All in all I see it as a dance between me, myself, and the Maker of I.

 

 

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