These Keys Are Pale Nothings

I keep trying to write lyrics and failing. The words turn meaningless and whatever point I had preordained becomes rusty, stale, stalled, expired, and I wonder at how I forget sometimes how pointless words can be, how ineffectual and pale. It's like the way a housebound Alzheimer's amnesic stands feebly next to Stephen Hawking. "Who are you?" and then "Who am I?" and then "What am I doing here?" and then he falls asleep and swallows his tongue when he forgets how to breathe, and Hawking sort of wheels out of the scene, thinking essential thoughts and producing a little something called progress that is so lacking in the act of putting words to the page.

What's gained by the human project from the further elucidation of a term already known, the fearful scribbling of an anxious freak, the methodology of a fictional bystander to a crime uncommitted in this reality?

Often, I struggle with what I enjoy. It is one of the few reasons that, despite general positivity, I am deeply unhappy with moment-to-moment life.