Loving The Alien (Sometimes)

(-Francis Bacon [1909-1992])



Sometimes I think I'm scared
Sometimes I know
I feel like making love
Sometimes I don't
I feel like letting go
Maybe not
I feel like giving up
Is all we got

Sometimes is all the time
And never means maybe
Sometimes is all the time
Maybe

And I'm moving on
And I'm moving on (Sometimes I feel alone)
And I'm moving on
And I'm moving on

Sometimes I make believe
When we're alone
Machines have taken hold
Can you get me to a telephone
It's just the little things
You used to see
Am I still that man who makes you who you want to be

I never noticed
How lovely were the aliens
Lovely were the aliens
I never noticed
Lovely were the aliens
Lovely were the aliens

-Velvet Revolver

A boring day and I turn on iTunes half asleep as I have a faint tune running in my head and I want to listen to the full song. But then it choses this Velvet Revolver number for me I had on my hard disk but I had never listened to. And it was love on the first listen.

The song is both hauntingly melodious and very beautifully written.
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Thinking about nothing in silence makes the the uncertainty and the inherent helplessness with which we live our lives overly apparent. The beauty of the mind lies in disguising the true facts with 'intellect' and 'issues' which demand careful thought and study. The world at large exists in chaos and the order needs to be decoded. Nations which are shining are somehow whining. But isn't it the people who make up the nation? Isn't the individual chaos responsible for generating the chaos of the world?

Decoding the me is something that comes naturally only when the immenseness of nothingness is carefully and fully felt. And the picture that comes forth is that of confusion and uncertainty coupled with a lot of helplessness. How every day is an unrealized fight for hope and reason.

It seems like times of failure are the only times when we are true to ourselves. When all the pseudo intellectual crap falls away to reveal the truest feelings. And then you decide to finally move on and fight again and dose yourself with the drug called rationality. The Neo dies down and you enter the Matrix again.

In all this rationality the smell of the wind, the taste of tears and the feeling of a breaking heart become alienated. The true self is lost in the shadow which becomes a mute puppet and an alien following us around as we judge, compartmentalize and then justify. It is neglected into becoming a schizophrenic sociopath responsible for the dark dreams that reflect an unexplored and part of our persona.

Maybe the truth of the sociopath needs to be listened to?

Maybe, just maybe, the grammar of the chaos lies in the shadow? Maybe it needs to be embraced before we are to gain even a faint sense of the 'issues at large'.