This world has no place for genius. Artistry, love, beauty, creativity is warped
and mangled like raw steel into financial gain and social profiteering. What
happened to the traveling gypsies, the gleemen and the circus? A generation of
lost souls is found in this mess of suits and ties and pumps marching head on
like lemmings over the cliff to an end that is all too predictable. Education,
Job, Marriage, Children, Retirement in Florida, and Death in a Mahogany Coffin 6
Feet Under with the Other Poor Souls trapped there with you. No, no, no. No sir,
that’s not me. Me and Jimi’re going up somewhere else, somewhere that the
fairy tales come true and dreams are waking memories. Nah, I don’t want a
utopia, that’s an illusion, man. I want magic. The
third-star-on-the-right-and–straight-on-until-morning *censored* that your
mother packed into your head at night to shut you up and make you sleep. You
didn’t know it then but its only when you do sleep that you ever find this
place. A few pockets of leftover magic from a time past and present in a
parallel future all hidden in deep glorious caves of wonder guarded by flaming
red swords and fake walls and Mr. SandMan’s sleepy, dusty, night beams.
Creativity is just memories of a time, a place, a generation that wasn’t lost
in the briar patch of reality, a muck of modernity that we find ourselves in
now. I guess I’m just waiting for that next life to take me back, pull me free
of this tar pit hell hole where a smile is a sneer and a friend is a foe. I pity
those who don’t realize the beauty of a soul smile, a child in her own world.
In the sand box: they are they only ones who know how to get back to that place,
but no one believes them. Even I have trouble now. I get glimpses into the life
I want to lead because its ‘right’ but a craving deep inside tells me that
there’s more and I’m just not looking hard enough, taping the wrong vein;
startling myself awake from the wrong dream. I want to break out. I feel like
I’m just sitting out on life, just watching the silly people go by, on their
silly missions. But I can’t tell if I’m just being lazy and waiting for
something to happen or if I’m dreaming a nightmare-ish existence in a Hell
called Earth and when I do finally wake up again I’ll be back where I belong.
“Click you heels three times, Dorothy and say, ‘There’s no place like
home, ‘cause there’s no place like home, ‘cause there’s no place like
home.’” I’ll meet you there, I guess, ‘cause I’m not sure what time my
train’s coming in. And maybe, just maybe my place is real; but maybe its one
that’s just a little bit higher than your own.