Flake

All flakes are different, right? Snow flakes are never the same. I suppose dandruff flakes are unique, too. Flakes come in different--and sometimes alluring--sizes.

I know she said it's alright
But you can make it up next time
I know she knows it's not right
There ain't no use in lying
Maybe she thinks I know something
Maybe maybe she thinks its fine
Maybe she knows something I don't
I'm so, I'm so tired, I'm so tired of trying

It's alright? Actually, it is not. It is not alright, it is not right, and it shall never be again. She knows--kind of. She knows only because she was reminded--probed--investigated. She knows, but not really. She knows, but she isn't willing to know too deeply. She knows something I don't? Actually, no. She doesn't even know the things she should know, much less what I do. Yes, now, at this point, I am tired. I am tired of trying--trying to forget; of trying to stop trying to exert energy forgetting. Why is it so easy to remember and so impossible to consciously--intentionally--forget?

I know she loves the sunrise
No longer sees it with her sleeping eyes
And I know that when she said she's gonna try
Well it might not work because of other ties and
I know she usually has some other ties
And I wouldn't want to break 'em, nah, I wouldn't want to break 'em
Maybe she'll help me to untie this but
Until then well, I'm gonna have to lie to you.

She loves the sunrise, the sunset . . . well, the sun in general. Under that sun--the sun being maybe the only one who knows all the things we are speaking of here--she had/has a few ties. I kind of knew this. I was kind of in the same boat. And, actually, I did want to break them. I wanted to break the ties--to be the only tie there was. I thought untying both of our respective knots might result in a story--a line--that led somewhere down the road--somewhere new--somewhere where we knew without lying. But, the knots were more tangled than we knew. The new could not emerge because, among other things, she knew not what she should have. What a flake.

It seems to me that maybe
It pretty much always means no
So don't tell me you might just let it go
And often times we're lazy
It seems to stand in my way
Cause no one no not no one
Likes to be let down
It seems to me that maybe
It pretty much always means no
So don't tell me you might just let it go

It may not always mean no, but most times--overwhelmingly so--it does mean disappointment. No one likes to be let down. Her ties and her unwillingngess to know herself--these let me down. Her knots--and her inability to realize her knottiness--are disappointing. You are not a memory. You are a an attempted-forgotten. See the difference? So, don't tell me to let it go. Don't tell me to let it go so we can be friends. Don't tell me to let it go so we can be nice. It's useless. You don't even have the capacity to know--to try to know--so what's the point? Disappointing; altogether disappointing. You are an attempted-forgotten disappointment flake--one melting into the landscape at the hands of the sunrise. When the sun gets high enough, you shall blend back into nothing--into a nothing of which I know nothing.