There you sit in your imaginary world, pretending to be a star of the movie world,
the music world, the football world; and in a country that doesn’t exist and can’t
exist, it breaks so many rules, all formed in your ignorant youth. It was fine when
you were a child but now you are grown and that world gets in the way of your life,
your work, your dreams. You live too much in your head, away from the windows
of your soul sat in an armchair faced away and living firmly in that world of your own
construction: wrapped in its red and blue striped blankets, faded to fuzziness and
ignoring my rapping on the window. It simply isn’t healthy. Just anti-social. You
want a girlfriend, don’t you? But you can only ever imagine one.
“Don’t criticise what you don’t understand… you’re happy… not depressed like me.”
Go then, boy, sit with distant dead eyes if you want. Disappear through the mazes
you make and run to hide. Let mould grow thickly on your skin and your hair fall
out. Allow the world to flow about the impenetrable thorny perimeter unwaded in by
your soft feet. You will miss every boat and be left with nothing but cheap symbolism
in your ivory grotto. You need a Kreuzberg-style realisation, a kick up the arse to
set you free and out, blinking, into this brightly lit world to get a life, grab your real
dreams and join the real world.
the music world, the football world; and in a country that doesn’t exist and can’t
exist, it breaks so many rules, all formed in your ignorant youth. It was fine when
you were a child but now you are grown and that world gets in the way of your life,
your work, your dreams. You live too much in your head, away from the windows
of your soul sat in an armchair faced away and living firmly in that world of your own
construction: wrapped in its red and blue striped blankets, faded to fuzziness and
ignoring my rapping on the window. It simply isn’t healthy. Just anti-social. You
want a girlfriend, don’t you? But you can only ever imagine one.
“Don’t criticise what you don’t understand… you’re happy… not depressed like me.”
Go then, boy, sit with distant dead eyes if you want. Disappear through the mazes
you make and run to hide. Let mould grow thickly on your skin and your hair fall
out. Allow the world to flow about the impenetrable thorny perimeter unwaded in by
your soft feet. You will miss every boat and be left with nothing but cheap symbolism
in your ivory grotto. You need a Kreuzberg-style realisation, a kick up the arse to
set you free and out, blinking, into this brightly lit world to get a life, grab your real
dreams and join the real world.
No comments:
Post a Comment