I wrote a song a long time ago that I love to sing. It's a "hurt so good kind of song", a cathartic gush of emotion, a Country and Blues kind of feeling. I sang it the other night. Usually it lances the pain of life, memories, and...well...life and memories says it. Need I say more? Yep. I have a smattering of lyrical prose to add to my ever evolving acceptance of life on life's terms, and it is this:
I am comatose with the truth. All I can do is stare into it as though I am seeing a mythical beast that turned out to be real. Hey, lots of things are astounding. I was no less fascinated with the Grand Tetons, or the Smokey Mountains, or the ocean, the sand, the petals on a daisy, the wings of a lady bug, the idea that infinity is infinite. So why should the bad astound me any less? “I can’t believe this is happening” is all smathered in “WHY?” and I can get lost for days trying to answer the incomprehensible. Freaks of nature are less mysterious than people, and love, and being human. Oh well, maybe “bad” is not what it is at all. “Sad,” or “difficult” may be more like it. Truth doesn’t always set you free; sometimes it reels you in.