You and Me and Words (more words)

Was it you who spoke the words that things would happen but not to me
Oh things are gonna happen naturally
Oh taking your advice I'm looking on the bright side
And balancing the whole thing
But often times those words get tangled up in lines
And the bright lights turn to night
Until the dawn it brings
Another day to sing about the magic that was you and me

Things will happen. Things are happening. And, yes, naturally--they have to happen this way. What's natural about the situation? I don't know. I don't know. Looking on the bright side? Yes. I think so. At the moment, the bright side is that there are words--lots of them. The words spew forth, yes, naturally. It's like there is no creating involved anymore; it is a matter of emanation, not trying. They are there, always. Dawn? I don't think the words will bring the dawn--I think the words keep the hope of dawn alive. There is a difference, an important difference.


Cause you and I both loved
What you and I spoke of
And others just read of
Others only read of the love, the love that I love.

Yes, we loved--both of us. But, we didn't speak of it. We didn't speak of it and that's the reason that we can't read about it, just like everyone else. Others try to read the words--the natural ones--that flow from what we both loved--from the non-thing that gives rise to all these words. They try to read about it because the words try to describe it. If we had spoken about it, it woudln't exist. If we had spoken of it, others wouldn't have to try read about it; but more importantly, it wouldn't be ours--it would be something altogether different. It wouldn't be love--it would be something worldly; something wordy.



See I'm all about them words
Over numbers, unencumbered numbered words
Hundreds of pages, pages, pages forwards
More words then I had ever heard and I feel so alive

Yes, the words are unencumbered. They come without burden or restriction. In fact, the words are the burden. The words are the burden of every day, every second. The words plague me. I have to work to crack myself open--to puncture every hidden space to bring those words to light--to let them breathe--to make them earn their existence. The words are coming, and the words are the burden. Almost out? No. Not even close. The words seem endless. And, thus, so does the burden.


You and I, you and I
Not so little you and I anymore
And with this silence brings a moral story
More importantly evolving is the glory of a boy



The silence? Don't get it confused. There are words. There will always be words. The silence doesn't signify the absence of words. No, the silence signifies the inability--my inability--despite the endless burden--to speak of what we loved. In this way, the silence is the reason for the words. The words are the silence.


Cause you and I both loved
What you and I spoke of
And others just dream of
And if you could see me now
Well I'm almost finally out of
I'm finally out of
Finally deedeedeedee
Well I'm almost finally, finally
Well I'm free, oh, I'm free


Others dream of it, but I am not so sure I don't either. But, don't worry, make no mistake, I'm not free. The words are free. The words come with ease. But, if the words are free, I am the opposite. Freedom isn't a matter of power--freedom is a matter of having a space in which to describe the love--the non-thing--that can't be described. In that sense, I am free. In that sense, the burden is a free one.


And it's okay if you have go away
Oh just remember the telephone works both ways
And if I never ever hear them ring
If nothing else I'll think the bells inside
Have finally found you someone else and that's okay
Cause I'll remember everything you sang

I know, it has to happen naturally. I know. I know that the silence--even if it doesn't mean the absence of words--might mean the absence of ringing, and even singing. I know the bells will sound for you again--you know how to sing too well, to call too well, and to play all too well. But, that doesn't mean the words will stop. It doesn't mean a double silence. No, the words will always come--keep coming--gush forth onto the page. With those words--with every letter--comes the hope of inseminating the page--the hope that someday the page will give birth to what we sang of--what we loved. Couldn't it, just once? Couldn't the unspeakable come to fore on the page? The revelation of love reveal itself on pages, in time, and, yes, in words? It is why the words exist, isn't it? I know, I know, it is admittedly a hope against hope. But, like I have explained, even if the words are free, I am the opposite. The words have me--possess me--so they'll keep coming, into a dawn that is nowhere--no how--in sight. And, if we aren't willing to hope against hope--at least once in a while--occasionally--well, is life--the breathing that makes both the speakable words and the unspeakable love--worth it?