It feels like a huge weight's been lifted off my shoulders
That's what I was hoping for, but I didn't expect it to happen so soon after deleting Facebook off my internetz.
I don't have to sign in to see if someone sent me a message.
I don't have to sign in to see if anyone posted on my wall.
I don't have to sign in to see if anyone invited me to an event I probably won't go to anyway.
I don't have to sign in to see what friend X ate for breakfast.
I don't have to sign in to "Like" a business page to get a coupon.
I don't have to sign in to see how hot girl Y is in picture Z.
I don't have to sign in to see what my friends did at a party.
I don't have to sign in to see random people wishing me "Happy Birthday!".
I don't have to sign in to see what friend X wrote on Y's picture.
I don't have to sign in to see what friend Y's boyfriend looks like.
I don't have to sign in to see pictures of memories that are more real than Facebook ever will be.
I'm finally free.
10/08/13
Inextrication
The drum lies in its dark red case, waiting for hands to strike it.
But no fingers ever touch it, for the master of the hands is afraid of it.
The guitar lies in its corner, gathering dust, waiting for fingers to pluck it.
But no hands ever pick it up.
The drum kit lies beside the door, waiting for sticks to hit it.
But no sticks ever hit it, for the sticks are nowhere to be found.
The keyboard lies on the bar, waiting for a virtuoso to play it.
But no virtuoso wants to touch it.
The bass lies between the bookcase and the wardrobe, waiting for a prodigy to finger it.
But no prodigy ever fingers it, for he is too far gone to remember it.
The mic lies in a dungeon, awaiting its owner.
But the owner rarely uses it.
The computer stirs, the blue and red lights turn on, and as it lets out its first dusty breath, I await my saviours.
But no fingers ever touch it, for the master of the hands is afraid of it.
The guitar lies in its corner, gathering dust, waiting for fingers to pluck it.
But no hands ever pick it up.
The drum kit lies beside the door, waiting for sticks to hit it.
But no sticks ever hit it, for the sticks are nowhere to be found.
The keyboard lies on the bar, waiting for a virtuoso to play it.
But no virtuoso wants to touch it.
The bass lies between the bookcase and the wardrobe, waiting for a prodigy to finger it.
But no prodigy ever fingers it, for he is too far gone to remember it.
The mic lies in a dungeon, awaiting its owner.
But the owner rarely uses it.
The computer stirs, the blue and red lights turn on, and as it lets out its first dusty breath, I await my saviours.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)