The things I believe in, they don’t make any sense. The sound silence makes on the end of a long-distance call that isn’t connecting. The idea of faith, bandied back and forth in circles with strangers who are closer than the people you’re supposed to know. The soft disappointment in a child’s eyes when she knows you aren’t going to make it, though you want to make it theoretically, and you’ve decided to make it, and cleared your calendar to attempt just that, you still know there’s certain things you aren’t up to and facing the fact of your life right now is one of them.
So I deal in concretes. The space from paper to pen-point when I sit down to write something and know it isn’t good. There are specific measures that failed here, facts that didn’t draw breath from unknown quantities. This isn’t a picture of damage, this is a picture of the self, creating around the edges. Producing from tenuous borders a whole kingdom of overlap so that the heart can bypass your fragile boundaries for a high, slick freeway.
This is a song about the terror that nestles in at night, snug up against the covers. A familiar thing, something that will move and make way for you the way his body doesn’t, night after night, as he stays accessible for someone else.
This is a song about life, not the way you learned it young and early, a game with rules you were groomed to be fit to play, but rather the real, barely real thing that turns around the daily axis. Life the way it turned out to be.