I don't have a past. I have baggage. And while I wait for the present to become the past and to turn into something I can rely on, my only past is in my head.
Still. Yes, still - given sufficient time, I find all of it inside me. I couldn't say I remember, 'cuz I've never forgotten - I just turn my head and it's there.
As a result, I will always have to buy insurance. Always have to turn around. Yes, I was better, I rose above, but I'm tired of greatness - all I want now is average mediocrity.
People turn around simultaneously all the time, there's nothing to it. Until one can stare the other in the face, they switch to invisible ink and the game begins. They turn into banjos; someone pretends and someone else sets the table for dares.
How deep do you wanna go? 'Cuz I'l go there if I can
The game and all that ensued - the almost forgotten piece of clothing, the day of running around and hiding, the words that were never asked for but nonetheless spoken (out of a sense of obligation or honesty?) - are the only soothing part of this past I stumble upon here.in.my.head.
How sick is that?
But then again, I'll always be a little bit sick.
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