Driving down the 101 to the sound of 1979, watching all the lightposts pass by. They come on time with the beat of the song like a metronome, this is beauty. Like the song, the beauty will end. The night isn’t raining but tinier than tiny droplets smack the windshield and merge together creating a wall, a layer of water between the road and me. I can’t seem to pass through the glass onto my road unless I violently slam into something, I fight the urge yet I never trusted the seatbelt anyway, The feeling of something choking me was jokingly trying to keep me safe, and airbags would just be obnoxious. I never want the drive to end.
I’m sorry to anyone that meets my sorry state, but the drive is too beautiful to ever mimic again. Once is enough.
Neverending melancholic songs seem to give me more answers to questions I haven’t asked yet. You sit and drive in a new car, new droplets and new walls of water to rush through. Why rush? Because life is too fast not to rush through. It’s better to burn out than fade away. You were right when you said we’re all just bricks in the wall. You were right when you said we were all dust in the wind, and you were right when you said we can’t always get what we want. But you were wrong when you said everything would be okay.
There’s no look on my face, it doesn’t move up or down, side to side, it’s on cruise control and doesn’t want to slow down to look at all the accidents. You’re eyes are staring off into space, looking everywhere except for my face. Everyone’s crashing and burning but I’ll still yawn and wonder which bottle will get me sleepy tonight. It’s sad and unfair, but we were meant for despair.
Nothing fits me quite as right as you did, but c’est la vie and etc.