Refugee

We got somethin', we both know it,
We don't talk too much about it.
Ain't no real big secret all the same,
somehow, we get around it.

It don't really matter to me, baby,
You believe what you want to believe,
You don't have to live like a refugee.
(Don't have to live like a refugee)

Somewhere, somehow,
Somebody must have kicked you around some.
Tell me why you wanna lay there and revel in your abandon.

It don't make no difference to me, baby,
Everybody's had to fight to be free,
You see you don't have to live like a refugee.
(Don't have to live like a refugee)

Baby, we ain't the first.
I'm sure a lot of other lovers been burned.
Right now this seems real to you,
But it's one of those things you gotta feel to be true.

Somewhere, somehow,
Somebody must have kicked you around some.
Who knows? Maybe you were kidnapped,
Tied up, taken away, and held for ransom.

It don't really matter to me, baby,
Everybody's had to fight to be free,
You see you don't have to live like a refugee.

- Tom Petty

Into starlight.

The unbearable lightness of being

'Why?' The word dangles from the child's lips. Scanning, searching, groping everywhere. Doors opened towards everything and nothing. Simple, natural, irrepressible impulse. Then fading. Not the end of questions, but the 'why?' becomes 'when?'. Or 'how much?'. The end of 'why?' and no more questioning. Everything given, taken for granted, claimed by birthright. Not even a 'what for?'. And that's our shame, a winding - but not the only - road. To stop questioning. No 'why?' for choices. For words. Tongue. Daylight. Summer wind. Kisses. The ocean. Silence. Music. Shoes on your feet. No flies on your skin. No poison in your well. No well, in fact, just running water. But no 'why?'. And we walk - no, we run - with no questions asked. To leave the questions behind - or to choose which ones to leave behind - is everyone's choice. And it is more than an exercise in self-pity. But it is simpler than that. Maybe just a gaze at the sun with air-filled lungs in a spring morning. Or maybe less. So it goes.

Into starlight.

A want of shade

'If I lied to myself,' said he, 'I should have the feeling I was lying to you as well. And I couldn't bear that.'
'Yes,' said Marcelle; but she did not look as if she believed him.
'You don't look as if you believed me?'
'Oh yes I do,' she said, nonchalantly.
'You think I'm lying to myself?'
'No - anyway, one can't ever know. but I don't think so. Still, do you know what I do believe? That you are beginning to sterilize yourself a little. I thought that today. Everything is so neat and tidy in your mind: it smells of clean linen: it's as though you had just come out of a drying-cupboard. But there's a want of shade. There's nothing useless, nor hesitant, nor underhand about you now. It's all high noon. And don't ell me this is all for my benefit. You're moving down your own incline: you've acquired the taste for self-analysis.'

- Jean-Paul Sartre

Into twilight.