Song of Sixpence

There’s this thing which I keep thinking about but I have no idea what it is. I can’t write it out, I can’t speak it out, I can’t do anything about it.

I guess it’s an accumulation of things. Things that have been building up in the back of my head and at the back of my eyes. Or maybe, it’s nothing at all. It’s something that happened a long time ago but I can’t exactly remember anymore. All I know is that it’s been this way for a long time. Years in and still…really, what good have years done for you?

And please don’t think I’m trying to deliberately write cryptically. This is literally how it all sounds like in my head. That’s why I can’t make any fucking sense of it either. I’m just hoping that I can find a way to understand it a little better if I see it all in writing.

But it’s not helping at all. Fuck.

A couple of years back, I wrote about things that actually existed. It was about the beautiful goal Roberto Carlos scored during the InterContinental Cup match; it was about the death of Brian Jones and why I liked Ronnie Woods more than Mick Taylor.

But now, I’m just writing about things that don’t make sense and things that don’t exist. I’m thinking about things that don’t make sense and things that don’t exist. And after all that, what’s left? A small square of paper with the directions to Jim Morrison's grave scrawled on it. You don't know what you're supposed to do and I doubt that you ever will.

But why don’t you give it another chance? Because if months and years passed by in a way that doesn’t seem to have mattered, then there’s really nothing much you can do about it. You can try your hardest to put dates to things, put memories to things…but in the end, it will all pass in a way that won’t seem to have mattered.

But I won’t stop you from trying. Good luck.


(At least this makes sense: Bella Pita)