"Let's get out of this town, baby we're on fire
Everyone around here seems to be going down, down, down"
Lucky Ones by Lana Del Rey
Emily. will her story ever get told?
i have yet to write it. separate myself from it and get it down on paper.
the first two lines of this song are really speaking to me.
but its hard right now. really, really hard. i know artists are said to work from pain, but this is far worse then pain. this is stillness at the bottom of a damp, wet, low hallow. the horizon is not visible. the people are dumb, arrogant, and so shallow.
stillness in the air. the smell of villages and small minds.
the landscape does not inspire any type of feeling. it is bland and does not even have the power to repulse or annoy. no feeling of any kind.
what is there to draw from the air, in a place where there is no atmosphere?
the worst kind of isolation. the worst kind of loneliness. not being part of your own people, your own country. hating the pale, pathetic thing that passes for culture in these parts.
i can see the pasterns of life. relationships and the pathways they make are visible to me. i am deep, and slow breathing, my mind moving like quicksilver.
everyone else seams blind. is this a gift or a burden? it feels like both, but does the price have to be isolation and loneliness?
i expect everyone to try for these depths, but hardly anyone seams to bother. my only comfort used to be the raw essence of nature. the breathing of the earth, the dance of the seasons. but even autumn is a poor version of itself, here in this place.