matt pond PA

January 11, 2016

Monday Morning.

I’m not sure. But I think writing songs may be the most civilized manner in which to lose one’s mind.

It’s a search beyond the wind that slams the screen door. It’s the enigmatic question in the cashier’s smile. The uncomfortable conversation with the carnival house mirrors that keep sneaking into all these damn daydreams.

Where is this sensation that I seek? And how do I reanimate it with words and music? Bloodly hell.

Pardon. Let’s change the discussion entirely.

If you won a billion-dollar lottery, what would you do? Would you split to a summery villa and forget about everything? Or would you chase the thing you’ve been pursuing your whole life? Down watery creeks, along the ferns and flowers, rich but still stumbling for some kind of awkward truth.

The point of our existence is to create. Bread, music, whiskey, words, more. (I’m not going to argue with the political ramifications of these incantations — we all deserve a shot to both create and consume.)

Some generate little humans and send them off into the world to make beautiful, innocent assertions.

Some forge through loneliness or birth-less-ness to find skeins and veins of meaning on their own.

All of it is important. All of these ridiculous and random thoughts will eventually mean something. They will. They have to.

I switched back from the dull gray width of my newly-purchased, full-spectrum mercury vapor bulbs to the yellow color of my previous incandescent bulbs tonight.

I would rather die than live in an awful light.