Bloodshot Strummer

Bloodshot Strummer

Slowly, effortlessly the street lights blink through their transitions, a guiding light in the darkness,  comforting in a small way as the tears of rain bang down upon the pavement. They close their eyes like a tired lover would, comfortable and safe without a care in the world. Tall buildings flash the car as we speed along the desolate roads, past the monuments and memorials, past the lives of millions of throbbing hearts awaiting the dawn with awe, suspicion, regret or fear, and maybe even hope although that is doubtful. Hope is a fickle emotion not prone to appearances at a time of distress. On the contrary, it is something that can only be found in the velvet blackness of a night somewhere at the beginning of ages, long before we had ever set foot on the earth. Love is as fickle if not more. Bitter love is what I practice, not longing, not desire, but something much darker and deeper down in the very pit of my soul. The lights sets my mind on fire, revolving around thoughts like a hungry diner at an all-you-can eat buffet waiting for his final turn in line. An existence lingers just outside my life, a tangible, beating thing that can almost be sensed at vulnerable moments crouching towards me like a tiger, waiting for me to run towards it, into its arms for the final time. An alternate existence of pain, love, lust, and most of all hope follows me, tracks my steps, and caresses me as I wait for the bus out in the cold, my breath spelling out names on the air. That crouching monster or angel ,I'm not sure which, lives within my music, within my fiber, within my books. It's ideology can be felt, can be touched, can be smelt as an aroma upon the wind sweeping me away past all the confusion of my life as we know it and onward to some unknown world where the guitars thunder and roar and the desperado waits for me at some deserted coffee bar, a pack of smokes by his hand and a bottle of Jack's already open.