You told me to move and be the best that I can be, I’ve been down for so long and now it’s time to get back on my feet. I’ll play the part of backseat driver to the stars but even then I’ll just wait in the wings. I won’t do extremes, you won’t find me at the depth of the sea or the top of the sky. Find me in between the lines. Where I will write lies of alter egos or an inheritance or a lottery win. Then I bulldoze my dead ends, draw a new circle of friends and start to plan beyond the weekend. The future’s beige and so am I. I’m not getting any younger. I’ll choose to place the blame. On good advice you gave me years ago. You told me not to listen to anyone else. Well, I did just like you said it got me to where I am right now: A rut so deep that I can hardly see the light… or the lie. This rut is my home, at least I know that now.
Do you remember a tree that fell down just for us to sit upon, to fill our livers and our lungs? And I would say that I’m not one for nostalgia but lately something has got me thinking. Can we recover? Can we be better than the people that we were before? If we recover and remember then maybe we can get back an inkling of our passion or a fragment of our innocence. Because something died inside but I’ll bring it back to life. I still remember a car park barely used and a museum rarely open. So when I tell you I don’t get sentimental maybe something will get you thinking. Bloody knees from running too quick, broken hearts so self-inflicted, it all still makes me feel sick, take it all back to the start, rip out the page, bring it back to life.
Markers From Home
"Let’s get in this piece of shit and drive." You’ve got a glint in your eye and a lust for the city light. I start to worry we’ll be caught in the act but it’s hard to say no when you’re looking like that. And what’s the worst that could happen? We’ve got a pen and a map beneath our bags in the back but we drive with no destination. Take some years off our life tonight, put consequences out of sight. We’re free spirits on the open road but we’ve got nowhere to go and I know that every yellow marker is another mile further from home. You say “what’s the worst that could happen?” but you’re just asleep or getting drunk in the back and I’m stuck up front wondering when things are going to go my way. This wasn’t my idea of getting out of here. I spent twenty-three years on the open road, now I want somewhere to go. Where do I go?
Trade the space. Trade the emptiness. Trade the guilt that’s inside you for something tangible, for something you can hold. How many times can I say “it was not your fault”? Loosen the grip. I’m not saying forget, I’m just saying forgive yourself and let it all go. Save the date like you’re saving a seat at the dinner table. Absence breeds apologies but you can’t keep saying sorry. How can you expect to move on when you have a shrine on your bedroom wall? Stop playing the victim and counting the cost. We all feel this loss. You say you’re not even sad now and you just need a minute to reflect. All those minutes add up to months. It never ends. So I’m sending you some home truths and if you don’t like it, you know you can go and grow old alone. If you don’t fucking like it, you better fucking leave. It’s the last time I apologise for saying what I mean. Let’s lay down in the garden where we used to lie.
(The Sands Of) San Lorenzo
We were on vacation on San Lorenzo contemplating life and all the greatest mysteries. We watched as the tide receded with impeccable style. You turned to me and pointed at the ground. This beach held the key to our existence; it was formed over millions of years. We’ve got a way to go before we finally solve all of the mysteries like time and love and everything between. We look to the sea, overwhelmed by sweltering heat. The sand between my toes tells me how little we know. I know this will all come back to me when we walk on the solid state of the sea. Time moves so fast as it slips through the hourglass. Who cares what the sands say? I’m working on my way to put it in the past. Creating to destroy and create again. We are the tide.
My English heart beats the same as if it was born in any other country. It doesn’t make me proud, it doesn’t make me hateful. It makes me a prisoner to arbitrary lines. My country and the things that I believe - I keep them close to me. Just like you do to you with a cross upon a flagpole (the one that you can’t bear but you still choose to wear). I get that some are caused by water and some are products of a war but I can’t relate when you say that the state and your culture is what drives you on and on. Just let them go all those borders that are holding you in or holding you back. The barriers you build are so high and you could just as easily be on the other side. The lines we draw around the people that we love are non-existent when we’re looking from above. They’re arbitrary now, a temporary house for belligerence and hatred. You don’t choose where you’re born.