Bartender! Bartender!
Bartender!
You ever miss the sound of your own voice?
Silly question I know, but still,
I want to hear my own voice.
I’m going mad, reading these books,
Doing all this study.
I do the usual things.
I take walks,
I write stories,
I read stories,
I meditate,
I dance,
I exercise,
Yet through it all,
I feel the pains in my joints.
My body is aching.
As if on the instinct,
It feels something off.
I point my arm out; it cracks.
I rotate my neck; it cracks.
I take three steps on the sidewalk and alas!
My leg cramps. My calves they reject me.
I feel pain all over.
And I speak to myself.
I speak to myself.
But I’m so tired.
I can’t even work.
At home, in that 2 by 4 apartment,
I sit in my chair, lucid with sloth-like lethargy.
Your computer, your radio’s gone lad!
What’s to make you laugh?
What’s to make you aroused?
To make you happy?
Oh how you try to make your own entertainment?
You write, you dance, you read alone!
Normally you ought feel fulfilled, but no!
Why does your body, your spirit need more?
Bartender.
I feel like I’m in a bubble,
When universal law dictates that I don’t live in a bubble.
I’ve ran from one gilded cage to another.
The first cage from my parents.
They built one of adoration,
Of greed, gluttony, and sloth.
I had to do no work.
I had no reason to bless the food, for it was plenty.
I had no reason to dream beyond purposeless riches.
The bird was fed, and he was happy for a time,
But then he was not happy, and so he fled.
The second cage, the one of today, I built.
I built it out of discipline.
Of diligence, awareness, and pride most unfortunately.
I’m doing the work.
I’m blessing the food, for no longer is it plenty.
I’m dreaming, dreaming far beyond any baseless cash.
I’m dreaming of a New Atlantis, of cities under the sea,
Of people living free, of joyful people sharing laughter under the sea,
Among a painting of coral, weightless fish, and prismatic sea light.
I’m dreaming of a people who fears not the Flood, but the Devils,
The Devils which seek to demotivate them into clinging to their cage.
The bird, I’m working to be free, I’m building,
I’m happy but something’s off.
The bird is building freedom, but the work of building,
It feels like a cage itself.
Not because the bird is building a cage mind you,
But more because the bird feels self-loathing,
Self-loathing for not being able to share what he has built.
The bird is content, but the bird feels stabbed,
When he looks upon the dead-eyed people he isn’t helping.
You know what I mean Bartender?
You don’t know what I mean?
You think I’m crazy?
Well I am. After all, I can’t think of a time I’ve felt more content,
Than when making other people smile dancing in the streets.
Oh how they laughed, how they said, “Look at him!”
And the Lord knows I’m not the best. I lack the grace of a real dancer.
But at least then, I was able to share what I have built.
I want to do it now, but it seems I have forgotten the habit.
Alas. Maybe old habits really do die hard.
I’m so used to silent meditation that I’ve become comfortable in it.
By writing these I at least feel productive.
Not that it brings me any closer to revelation.
I already know what I have to do to build that dream.
Part of building would be sharing I suppose.
I mean, a monument in construction can still be seen right?
Even if the building’s built aren’t the greatest,
Or aren’t the most pleasing to look at,
Just the fact they exist to add variety to the scenery,
That can be enough right?
Like poor poetry, or vagrants, or a beat-up boxer.
In the world where everyone’s rich, where everyone’s a winner.
It’d get really boring wouldn’t it?
There has to be some level of loss right?
For the rich to be rich, and champions to be champions.
In the post-world Flood there must be winners and losers.
But the losers? Can they be content as well?
If possible, I’d like to build a world where one can win even when losing.
To win even when losing.
Bartender.
Maybe we ought to try it.
