We live in a dirty age. The beginning of an era, we saw the old one out. What have we left to offer? Too many voices. Still the same stories. Some victories, yes. But the mesh of it, the net of it all, decayed, worn out, still we struggle to find light, the chink in the window as we walk home and put bread on the table. Tomorrow is another day. Tomorrow it will be better. Take it one step at a time. But our age is worn out, transparent, too many open ends. Too many voices. Too many faces. Too much of history. Our age is worn out. Worn away. Aimless or, too aimful. Too many open ends, too many conversations. And even without drugs, what is real anymore? We wrestle with the truth. Hold onto to the muscle of what we recognise. Chew down with our jaws. Searching for something to hold onto. This listless age. This shallow age. This age of fame and noise and hope and… shit. We just want our voices heard, even if we have nothing to say.
Even when we’re useless and stupid and empty and our poor beating hearts are shattering themselves in their cages, throwing themselves against the bars. This grey age which will pass faster than the others, nothing to offer, nothing true, except flickers of moments, fluorescent bulbs blinking in stutters, when we held onto hope, saw the light, the truth of it all, the point of existence, but then we submerged, victims to our brain, our egos, our families, our past, our pain. Old before we know it, dead, memories passing through like scenes on a projector. Nothing matters. Almost nothing.
Blank-eyed, searching for light, wanting to be heard but nothing to say.