Listen to Suggested Audio
Public Enemy “Rebel Without A Pause (Instrumental)”
When do we know for certain that we’ve made it?
If we were offered a short cut to the top, how many stops would we pull out to take it?
Could we be persuaded to go it alone or would that just leave us jaded?
How far does hope actually float before the light above starts fading?
How much can our egos become inflated before we plateau?
In the chateaus of our minds, can we outgrow the decor?
Must we exit through the front door or is it best we show our faces?
And which face do we show when the frame insists on changing?
Do these strange rearrangements estrange us from embraces?
Are there vague traces of airspace in these faceless places?
Could these rats we race in actual fact be chasing us?
Be awaiting a pause so they can tie together our laces?
Which part of our brains are our actions pertaining to?
Are we retaining data or do we flatter to deceive?
Are our minds in fragments and absent without leave?
Does it matter if our thoughts scatter?
Or happen to make matters worse?
Are we madder than hatters and is this a curse or blessing?
Is all this convalescing addressing the root of the problem?
By stressing these points, do we lessen the workload?
Or do we railroad each node by tapping in their postcodes?
Must shouts ring in our ears and can we stop them from stinging?
Can we still show willing once our heads start spinning?
Dial it back to the beginning and forgive them any trespasses?
Or is it less hard not to fess up to the things that tend to stress us?
Are our domes chrome or could that which glimmers within be merely rhinestone?
Is success a time loan or a limestone headstone waiting to be engraved at the dead zone?
And will our noses be put out of joint by keeping to the grindstone?
Is there a time zone to fame?
Does it travel well?
Can it measure through mile stones?
Are there touchstones or must we clutch straws?
Is there much more they haven’t told us?
If that front door we spoke of earlier shuts, then is another inclined to open?
Or is nothing quite that clear-cut?
Is every souvenir we pick up a gesture or a token?
How did our predecessors fare or is that not spoken about?
Does one need to abstain from all other links in the chain to locate their true range?
Do we play the blame game, the name and shame game, the one which takes aim and maims fame as any lingering fingers of blame point the same way?
Our way, one which runs rather tastelessly adjacent to the highway.
Somewhere along this causeway of culpability, are we not bound to flounder?
Is any voice of reason not drowned out by another that shouts even louder?
Should this continue to ground us in reality when there’s an evident clause to our sanity?
If we sign the dotted line can we divorce from reality?
Must remorse force caustic thoughts and distort all clarity once it has run its mournful course when, of course, we’re never actually quite as guilty as we first thought?
Will these first thoughts of the day inform the next few?
And will the next few do just the same until the day just gets away from us?
Is it plain sailing all the way?
Or prevailing only to vaguely dismay?
Mind over matter. Isn’t that what they say?
But what does that which they say matter anyway?
I mean, tomorrow will still be another day right?
That’s a whole lot of questions. And, with the mind now in detention, the formerly unmentionables come into play.
There’s the heart, as we know, but this time-sensitive ticker only knows one tune, and has been known to march to this drum in a manner most humdrum.
Hold up. About that skipped beat. Did that appear to be retreat-themed?
Or could its need be to lead us to a piece of kit more prestigious?
While the heart it gently weeps, could there be another hand that feeds us?
One which hasn’t been decreed to mislead and impede us?
Should we recede along the hair lines of our deepest compound fractures?
Or unleash this beast to see this beast in action?
And then, is it likely to tease us?
Easy targets have a tendency to depend on fate to prevent the clean sweep and it may well be disgusted with the company it keeps.
After all, for all its industry, the soul has led such a sheltered existence previously.
Perhaps it will show leniency once it learns of our inconvenience.
Indeed, only recently, we suffered in a manner most indecently.
Ceaselessly life needled and deliberately ignored our pleas.
Non-discreetly stampeding our wide open veins as pleasure was superseded by the most groping of all pains.
Needless to say, there appeared a dearth of gain attached.
Let’s just put it this way.
Every last doubt placed in our delicate minds is entirely man-made.
For without the soul’s guidance we are shamefully misplaced, playing kiss chase with our tails, and the trail leads no place in particular.
Vehicularly challenged, we remain in neutral the whole way, and this road to nowhere declares only indifference for fame.
And fame, as it transpires, isn’t determined by whether or not we make it.
As, once the soul has had its say, we’ve already made it.
There may not be vast riches but what’s to say we don’t still get paid?
Can we not achieve fame by believing fame has already been achieved?
Is that bidding to deceive or merely living to perceive?
With the eyes providing windows to our souls, aren’t we now in a position to finally be seen?
And can this clean line of vision really be believed?
Yes. It can.
While not suggesting this to be a done deal, it’s some way from dusted and that’s a claim to fame should we drop our guards and trust something.
The soul knows what to do, that happens to be its specialty, especially when given reason to push through and start renewing shit.
Simply locate a twinned flame which burns the same way and kindle it.
Unlock those inner children as they’d rather not we killed them.
They pick shit up at a much faster rate anyway so it pays not to be afraid of retraining them.
They can take it.
What’s more, they just may make us chase fame instead of wasting our days disgracefully.
Find this twin flame, hold it in the highest possible acclaim, and you have already found fame.
Richard Charles Stevens
Keeper of The Crimson Quill
© Copyright: Rivers of Grue™