Note To Self, Pt. 2

0016

I don't think she knows who I am. I don't think I know who she is either. Not anymore. It tears me up. I am not disclosing any names here. They aren't important and can only fuck up the groove of this letter. But sometimes I think about the life I'm living and I think about the the life I lived and this goddamn song I am listening to only makes me think about it more. Bright Eyes. It's Cool, We Can Still Be Friends. Conor Oberst must have been a king  in a past life--the pain in his lyrics doesn't run parallel to mine; it runs in the same fucking vein, cold and metallic. "Yeah we still watch movies, but we don't share the couch...yeah we still watch movies sometimes, but you don't lay in my lap...Yeah you'll even sleep over, but we stay in our clothes...I'm only there so you're not alone."  We all have those songs that tap into who we are to the point that its hard to believe we didn't write them ourselves. The kind of songs that make us want to sue the apparent "artist" for the plagiarization of very soul's.  It is these artists to whom I address the following. You who would dare to speak of ideals deeper than those held merely in your fleeting heart. To those who would tap into the heart of truth. To those who would live and love without apology, and without fear, or at least with less apology and fear than I. I'm glad for you. Perhaps it is my place and perhaps it isn't but I address you with this: Be good to her. Be good to him. Keep loving-- the world and yourself. I'll keep listening. I'm listening.

With all due respect,
Kingsley