In the Sun

"I picture you in the sun wondering what went wrong
And falling down on your knees asking for sympathy
And being caught in between all you wish for and all you seen
And trying to find anything you can feel that you can believe in."

There you are. The one. The road. The journey. The experience. It's been surreal. The venom and the anger--now wrapped in tears and vulnerability. The frustration and misunderstanding--now flowing down your cheeks, your hands trying to cover not the hopelessness, not depression--no, don't get it confused--trying to cover the utter and complete emptiness of non-being; of having yourself evicted from yourself because of another.

"I know I would apologize if I could see your eyes
’cause when you showed me myself I became someone else."

Strange. Ironic. I can't see you. I don't get to be inside anymore. Your eyes are shielded, begging me to stop looking--to stop gazing--to stop being inside. The vulnerability that is so evident you try to hide. But, I can't help it. I am inside. And I feel how alone you are.

But here is the cruel paradox. It was only you who showed me--helped me--enabled me--to be me. When I looked into those eyes--the ones I'm no longer given the privilege to see--you showed me how to be me. Yet, when I became me--well . . .

"How much will I find
If I find
If I find my own way
How much will I find
You"

The consequences of that paradox: now I look on my own. I look with no eyes to look into. I gaze with no window into any soul. No, I search--I try--I am me apart from you. Yet, I am only me because of you. This is strange to me. Strange and excruciating.

"But I was caught in between all you wish for and all you need."

And

"I been caught in between all I wish for and all I need."

That's it, isn't it? Its universal, and here, it is particular. This is human. This is existence. This is the paradox of existence. Kitsch existentialism? Maybe. Pubescent questioning? Perhaps. But, in an age of 'posts-', of cynicism, of difference. In a time of technological prosthetics which replace souls and informational identities which replace the body. In a place which now looks like all others. What else do you, or me, or any of us have to say? Only . . .

"May god’s love be with you
Always
May god’s love be with you."

A prayer? No. Liturgy? No. A command to a certain set of beliefs or a particular idea of 'God'? No, again. Instead, a desire to move past. A desire for new. A hope--despite the paradox--that need and want--that myself and myself, that me and you, aren't infinitely separate, but only temporally alienated.