"...And He Started Singing:"

So is this the change you think you felt?
And I have to ask, do you like it?
You put your past loves up on a shelf.
So you can try to forget.
All the hearts that you have broken.
But this time love, I'm sorry,
I won't let you leave so easily.

I gave you love like you've never known.
Like you've always wanted.
But when the time came to take me home,
You said, "I'm so sorry dear,
I just don't know if I can handle this,
so please don't stay here,"
But I don't want to go.
Don't make me go.

I thought that I could give you,
a simple life, like that of an artist.
Live by a lake, or a pasture full of horses.
Or maybe a coastal home, by the ocean.
We could have it all in arm's reach.
Just collapse into me. Darling, please.
I know you're tired.

-Something I started singing on the way home. I liked it. So I wrote it down. It's a shame really. It's too late for it to really have any power. All that is contained in this song is gone now. There's nothing left but severed threads swaying listlessly in the breeze. Struggling in vain to reconnect to what has completely released itself from them. The reasons for the strain and inevitable snapping of the threads are completely lost in translation. The rope will say: "It was too heavy," while the weight says: "The rope was not strong enough."

Words like the ones contained in this song are useless now. They are not strong enough to reconnect that which has been broken.

I should be a fucking philosopher.

-Matt