“How astonishing it is that language can almost mean,/ and frightening that it does not quite. Love, we say,/ God, we say, Rome and Michiko, we write, and the words/ get it wrong.” - Jack Gilbert
What wonders, and then the inadequate us fumbling for words for things that won’t be voweled or spelled without a hell of a fight. Leaving us jaw-broke and shaken up, shoulder-slacked quiet and getting high on the night sounds that linger like smoke. Either we’re hopeless or hopeful, either more is less or we’re less full, but either way Camus was right when he said that this spiteful simplicity is all we have. This feeble strength of a mountain or nothing at all; this saying-it-the-way-it-was or lying or not saying, we choose.
And it’s true that wounds bruise all heels, but there’s no shame in trying to say otherwise. It’s hard to be honest, after all. But there are no redemption songs here, no escape plan. Just the patient testament of everything that’s pushing us up the hill and watching us roll back down. Of love and lust and whatever it is that has us by the lapels and is shaking the shit out of us in the back alleyway to wake us up. To keep us breathing. To get us off the meds and back into the woods and oceans and stars of these hearts of ours and fucking feeling again. This isn’t an album; it’s you, and it’s you, and it’s me, and it’s everything we see so clearly and are afraid to mean when we speak. It’s the painted truth. The haggard, futile beauty of being human.
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