And I would say I love you, but saying it out loud is hard/ So I won't say it at all/ And I won't stay very long/ But you are the life I needed all along/ I think of you as my brother/ Although that sounds dumb/ And words are futile devices/
There was this day. It wasn't such a great day. I felt pretty morose. I feel that way sometimes. But it wasn't a morose that brought me to my typical, dysfunctional halt. It was a morose that made me want to create. It was a strange feeling. Most often when I'm morose it makes me want to curl up on the carpet and cease. And I'm not saying this piece is particularly well executed. It isn't one of my better efforts, especially given the circumstances. But I'm proud of it. I'm proud of it because I gave that effort, even though the effort was hurried and clunky. I'm proud of it because it represents a strengthening of character, which, in my life, has been slow in its manifestation. And it feels good. It feels good to not have carpet-indent lining the side of my face. It always feels good to push back.
These hip cats came into the store I work at a while back. You can really tell an out-of-towner when the make an appearance. Hardly anyone looks or carries themselves like this where I live. To each their own, I suppose.