Secret messages written for you, for a friend (or two), for others, for nobody, and hell, even for myself.
Well, you were never really my master, were you?
But you were, by proxy.
I have to admit I almost feel gaslit.
You already got my message. If you read it, you already know I didn’t understand.
Or maybe I did, but wanted certainty.
If you’re reading this, the answer is Yes.
Followed by I Know.
And this is why, I haven’t done so.
I have seen the barrier, but only a glimpse.
The glimpse struck me deeply, but the knowing withdrew.
I’ll tell you like it is and I won’t hold back.
The problem is that you desire to control and to image-pad and to prevent nature from showing its true teeth.
You desire to not be who and where you are as you are.
I bite my tongue as the compulsion arises to speak to you directly.
In doing so I would betray the impetus behind this desire for a pittance of immediate gratification.
To do this would be immature and unserious.
A hurricane of bittersweet nostalgia hits me like a truck when I listen to those rough and growly guitars captured on my phone in that little industrial warehouse.
I don’t know if you know this, but we were actually starting to get pretty good.