Stage Work


It’s tired. Tonight is a lonely place to be and it is tired through to the bone. Ankles are swollen round from the pressures and quakes of glide after hitch after trip after run after endless movement. And sitting still is unfamiliar and uninviting.

This year has been a long one, in mentality and motivation, and sometimes it just doesn’t do to be anymore. Like being is just too much weight for a person’s shoulders to hold up any longer, and they take to sobering up in a corner hoping the world won’t pay too much concern as they try to patch themselves back up. Be presentable to the world again.

And sunglasses can hide the dark circles presumably well until the clouds in a person’s head block all the sun and it’s just too dark to see with them on. This year, and the one before it, has taken its toll, and it’s not easy anymore, to be.

So tar black recording rooms and studios have become the shelter of the boy, who has taken to bleeding out the answers to life again. Reminiscent of a younger boy who seems a little out of reach sometimes, but offers sound advice to the aged version when advice is heeded.

Stage after stage and it feels strangely like a nested home, built from the sticks and twigs and leaves of the bits and pieces of every heart in the audience. And for a while they are okay together, and life can go on and it is not so lonely after all.

And the rings, buttons, glasses, jackets, tattoos console and complete the boy, and he is beautiful. The world still marvels, and the shadows still whisper, and the boy walks on.

Through the different cities and countries and continents, but always finding the lonely again in the dark. And ears are sore from the beat of the stereo speakers and instruments that blaze so loud through them. And vocal cords are strained and tired, so tired, trying so hard to be felt by people, understood. The heart has slowed down now from the race it has completed, and the eyelids want so hard to follow suit and just be done.

But the dark is lonely and biting and so he keeps writing, revising, reworking, rebuilding. A song for another day, and the boy is so incomplete.