Life …

Listening to.

So life, what is it? I have to presume it’s different for everyone. Obviously the basics are the same, food, water and dare I say, work! But that is not life, they are just the things of life, things you do. Or is that life? It’s seems to be a mystery and yet is also very known. When someone thinks of life, I guess it’s coloured by ‘their’ life, rather than life itself. Is life the animating power that effervesces you? Rather than your history?

I only ask, as like many things, I have no real idea what it is. Like, what are we supposed to be doing? What’s humanities plan for the future? More war, more psychopathic official telling people how to live? Maybe it doesn’t matter, it is what it is. And yet, for some reason that leaves me wanting. Wanting for what, I don’t know. I can wait patiently for a train for ever, it’s just the way I am. Until eventually I shall get up and move to where there are no trains, therefore I don’t have to wait.

I long to see the world but I am unable. Because the world is not free, and of course, we are not free. Maybe that is the frustration in me. That the things I need are not available to me. The things I would use to quantify what I would say is life. Life to me should be about living, and yet many of us are not living. We are just doing the normal boring day to day stuff. People who go off on long travels find coming home so hard, for this very reason. That living like we do is actually very dull. The same with soldiers back from duty, they find everyday life dull.

I guess it’s too late to join up, so that one’s out. I shall just have to find a way to have a life that is spontaneous, fun and ever changing. Maybe it’s not possible. The humdrum gates of normality have clanged shut on humanity, as we struggle to identify the problem which is one that has been self imposed. That of conformity, humdrumness, with no adrenaline needed to get through the day. It could be just me, but that seems so fucking boring.

Home is not a place, it’s a feeling …

Listening to.

Everyone has an idea of what a home is I guess. Maybe from your childhood, or someone else’s family, or maybe you just intrinsically know. For awhile I thought I knew what a home was. I would always make places nice, though in truth the style I use was stolen from a good friend of mine that I met when I was fourteen. My home vibe is stolen in affect! Never thought about it like that before. Or is that what everyone does? Steals some else’s idea.

I have lived in, let’s see, [ sound of me counting out loud on my fingers ] twenty different places. That is to say I have had twenty different homes, in twenty different locations. A lot of moves, some I wanted to make, some I was forced to make. Which one felt most like home? I tricked myself into believing a couple of them felt like home for awhile, well maybe only one in actuality. But like I say I tricked myself. All of them where fine – Angel Town in London in the 80’s was pretty harsh – but most were fine. Some, amazing!

But I realise now, that to start with, I was not sure, and maybe I am still not sure what a home is. I certainly never thought of my parents house as home. In fact I couldn’t leave fast enough. No idea why, except maybe one thing. That I have come to realise that home is not a place for me, it’s a feeling. It’s a feeling of love, and whenever I feel love, I am at home no matter where I am. Unfortunately, due to my original home, and maybe the lack of love in it, I lack the normal ‘self love’, therefore mostly feel homeless.

I don’t own my own home, I rent. And I could never be jealous of those that do. But I would say I do envy those that have that feeling. Walking through the door and knowing you are home. My homes to me, are more like garages, where I service this animation that I am wearing, as it seems to need nourishment. But it never feels like home. It’s warm, it’s good, it’s nice. But something is missing. Home is not a place for me it’s a feeling. I wrote a song with that title recently, will I record it? Probably not. Why would I?