I can hardly move
And I sure can’t groove
And I can hardly see why I’m so afraid
And the days are long
I can’t get rid of what’s wrong
It’s plain to see
But the problem is, is, is in me
It was quite incongrous, and it was also the first thing I noticed. Perhaps not the first thing I noticed, but certainly this (not those, though they did too) stuck out, or in, like a sore thumb. It is odd, pondering on it, whether it is an affectation or not, but it has been a long time since I have seen an adult sucking their thumb.
I wish I were
A singer
A dancer
Dancing for your love
But then it struck me that I haven’t seen any children sucking their thumbs in a while, either. But this brings up the question as to if that is a true observation, or whether I am just not noticing them as I am removed from their world, and I am filtering them from my recollections of daily life. It has been a long time since my progeny would have been of a thumb-sucking age, and they never did, as it happens. Nor did we profer them dummies, as I am not a fan of those at all.
Am I somewhere in the middle
Do I count at being special
Is there a sincerity in anything I say
Do I know what anything means
Can I see
But how am I seeing the world? How am I even seeing the parts of the world that I am aware of? How much am I missing? A while back, I took to looking up more. There is so much hidden, unnoticed, along the tops of buildings where they prop up the sky. Not even the gargoyles, the dates and birds, though those are all there, it is amazing what most people are missing. The windows of differing and mismatching shapes, the guttering running at angles, sections missing, along and disappearing around corners.
I listen to the radio
Not music but the talk shows
I watch a lot of PBS and BBC
I don’t want to meet the press
I’m scared, I’m scared of what I see
The only thing I recognize
Is the pain in my side
And the hunger that I feel
Is the only thing that is real
One of the books I read recently (a disappointment, actually, not what I thought it was going to be) explained this in different terms, and the mode with which you view time. I know I have issues with time, and while the book might have explained some of it, it was more like a self-help book that the ‘Psychology of Time’ it proclaimed itself to be. Looking around you, taking notice of what is happening, demands you live in the present, not the past failures or the coming day’s schedule. You can’t take time, you can’t buy time and you certainly can’t have it back.
I wish I were
A singer
A dancer
Dancing for your love
Look up. Look around. Look.
