On Who Picked Up the Cards

08/28/2006 6:21 AM – 6:42 AM

Wake up on a Monday morning and you fell alright, feel okay. The clouds are thick, the air is warmer than it has been but you awake and you fell alright, feel okay. Where’s that coming from? The last time we did something, there was snow and such. Lift it up. Lift it up again. Let it down. Let it down again. You grew up. What do you want to be? Apperently, this.

If it’s all about forgetting and remembering, where are we now then? Where we always were, driving away from troubles and driving towards the waterside dawn. Running away always make more sense. Staying is only for the brave and bold and boring. So you get up before first light and put on your driving clothes and sit down and type. There. That was a nice neat fade through. Bleed out. When last we were together, the air smelled of freshly mowed grass and falling rain and rising dust. We sat there on the bench that overlooked the pond and wondered why things turned out the way they did. Then the song came and we remembered that nobody really knows how they got to be this way.

Where do you go, my lovely, where do you go? What is love, baby, don’t hurt me, don’t hurt me no more? I let you go a long time ago. Love is something left in the toybox with the rest of the imaginary friends. There’s just this, and this is alone with a cup of coffee and a pack of Camels and a thing to type on. Grow up, get up, get going. Time to be your own father again. Take me out, Dad. Take me out for Texas Hots on a rainy day when all true detectives are thankful for the repreave from heat and melancholy thoughts. Watch the pretty bunny, bet on the ponies, normalicy eats away at you. Keep telling yourself that. Forget it. No use remembering impossible things if you imagine yourself in the story. Remember the impossible things, but take yourself out of the picture. The whole picture will be about you anyway. Somewhere around the four hour mark, they started talking again. They don’t remember what it was about. Nothing important, we can assume. That is the nature of the thing, forgetting that you were not speaking and forgetting what made you speak again. After the cards are scattered, everyone was angry and refused to pick them up. Then someone picked them up. No one is positive who did it, and each one secretly thinks it was themselves, but that’s fine. The cards got picked up. It’s time to start building a house again. The man behind the curtain is still the one that has to tell you how to get home.