Soapbox

Wake up to the same grey every day

London's calling but you choose not to answer

Faint echoes of many a night

Are the ever-present spectre in many an alleyway

You board the rail to traverse the realm

Passing by the familiar human geography

Lingering overcast changes to an underground

Toward industrial relics and promises of new futures

Meanwhile, the mental train runs on a parallel schedule

And like clockwork hitting the same stations

Soon the mantras resonate in the skull-cavern

And a creed is recited dutifully

The act of breathing is a burden

The quest for meaning is meaningless

All gods are God and there is no God

The only thing that matters is matter

Thus the way to greatness can only be paved in gold

That the hoarders will never bequeath to you

Until the great blood purge occurs

And then

And only then

Can things ever be right

The song remains the same

Wait

This beat sucks

How about something else?

Now how hard was that?

Find new sounds if the old never satisfied you

Chart your own course and never mind anyone else

And if you had indeed attained enlightenment

The light will show the way to those who seek it

So then, why pursue music if it's disposable?

It's only as disposable as you make it

Consider this: shallow efforts lead to a shallow labour

And thus only the shallowest of fruit would be made to bear

For that matter

Why project old grudges onto new people?

Is it fair to call someone a jerk after only being here for a few minutes?

Why insist on letting go of the long past

Whilst holding on fervently to a personal one?

You are the captain of your own vessel

You are the chief of your own tribe

You do not answer to the Davos Admiralty

Nor to Blofeld-Strangelove of Cologny

The sounds are yours and yours alone

The actions are yours and yours alone

You did not choose the beginning

But you can choose your end

After all

You make your future like you make your music