...

In a quote by John Fogerty he recalled Credence's time at Woodstock saying that they were playing to half a million sleeping bodies for their 3am time slot... Yet he recalled a guy flicking a lighter on the hill and hearing the words "Don't worry about it John. We're with you." He said that he played the rest of the show for that guy...

Maybe that's how I feel so often, in a place where all around me I see sleeping bodies, curled up, twisted into shapes, indifferent... They see me of no consequence and I cannot stir them from their own worlds... Then I feel very alone... Until every so often I might squint into the distant night, thinking there could be something silhouetted against the sky, and I'll hear someone speak with their words telling me "Don't worry about it. We're with you."

Then I can't help but believe this to be a very beautiful existence after all...

...

I hate...
I hate...

I hate, and hate...
and I hate...

I hate,
I hate,
I hate...

but I hate when
I hate...

I hate
myself...

I.K. Estbon

...

Break open into voice and bursting lungs, breathe...

they will quake
The song will flow into some form of errupting rhythm, the turn
burst open, The song will carry
skies rise, night sings
The song finds air

Breathe...

do we reflect?
past regrets, and
worried spirits

Breathe...

Another flowing verse enchants
here it is

here it comes

here it goes
Another flowing verse departs

Breathe...

I.K. Estbon

...

From the ground I look up and wish to become a bird, yet what bird would I be?

There is enough to terrify me while my feet seem planted firmly...

I.K. Estbon

...

Here we find ourselves again, down this old road of thought... It always drags us down, not because it is attractive but because it is familiar up to a point... It feels like that old country path with the twisted gums and all that dust that flings up behind, it seems to smell of nostalgia and a strange mysterious familiarity... We'll never understand it completely but, like this feeling of being miserable, we're still drawn to it as if to suggest that one day we'll know this road... And then once we know it we'll be able to understand it... What an empty place that'll be, when we know exactly where this old road is leading us... Fortunately we'll never understand, we'll never know, we'll never see where it leads and what is waiting once it gets there... We always find a place to stop along the way or an open door somewhere beside it, which is a good thing as I suspect this is a better alternative than going down that old road... That old road of melancholy...

I.K. Estbon

11SEP09

dear dead and departed,

where have you sunk to?

we find our world is but a play of smoke and mirrors,

to where you have come to

it is you who are among us

leaving me begging what you have come to take from us

but you choose only to watch

the benevolent few left to wonder,

why you gaze at us with such pity

the dead and departed and the pitiful creatures with living to do

...

Let us discover great joy and sadness...

I.K. Estbon

...

Little head explosions...

Push me, change me
keep me guessing
will it be better to wake tomorrow?

I.K. Estbon

...

Judging people by what they say and/or do is dangerous unless you're prepared to judge yourself as well. Otherwise we'd discover very little.

I.K. Estbon

...

Spring comes, the winter a fading call...

We rock ourselves to sleep and wonder when the heat will come,
will we warm to it or feel cold and distant like before?

At night the mind searches
--and seeks
----tendernous
------from warmth