Dear All,
I really like this words from Lucid 9 so I want to share it.
I think ... I've been here before
That's right. This ... is a familiar road
There's a sign at an intersection. I think. It's rickety and rusted.
Worn from use
There's no words on it. Just two arrows: one pointing forward, one pointing backward.
I'd ... just like to stay here.
A fork in the road... is such a dangerous thing
Left. Right. A one-time decision. And -- if it turns out that you run into an obstacle - then you'll find yourself wishing that you made the other choice
Then... don't you start overthinking everything ?
What if I'd taken the other road ?
What if the other road was worse ?
What if there was another road, if only I'd looked harder ?
What if I hadn't taken a road at all ?
What if I'd gone backwards ?
"Two words diverged in a wood and I -
I took the one less traveled by,
And that has made all the difference.
A poem written by Robert Frost, originally intended to be a simple teasing joke.
A hint of playful satire at indecision
But people saw it as something else.
Even though they weren't poets, they started adding their own kinds of verses to the composition.
Independence. Individualism. Science, discovery, curiosity.
Free will and the human condition.
Poor Robert Frost. Suddenly, he had written an entirely different poem even without touching his pen.
Two roads diverged in a wood, and I --
I took --
I--
"Here comes a candle to light you to bed.
Here comes a chopper to chop off your head
Chip chop chip chop, the last man's dead."
Sometimes ... I really wonder about children's nursery rhimes
Why do we let young kids listen to such twisted ideologies ?
Children aren't supposed to deal with that kind of stuff
They're supposed to be innocent...
Supposed to be ... innocent...
"Jack and Jill went up the hill to fetch a pail of water.
Jack fell down and ..."
...
... ?
My world ... suddenly feels warm
What is that ?
Why is it happening ?
...I suddenly get the impression that I'm awake
I think someone's holding my hand. The tips of my fingers feel warm, like they're being cradled in a loving palm.
Everything else is blinding light that drills into the back of my eyes.
Home. Home is here.
Home ....
... I dream a little longer
My dreams are softer, now. A little more delicate, like lace instead of sandpaper.
... My eyes peel open, sluggishly, like they haven't done so for a decade.
My muscles feel weak and lifeless. Spindled slugs on a sidewalk. My throat's dry and my head is smarting.
So. Looks like I'm in the hospital.
I notice that a nurse is at my bedside, fiddling with the IV drip on the table. She seems... tired. Drawn eyes, tight frown.
I clear my throat to get her attention.
---
It's not my fault
I decide to say this to the mirror every morning, even if I don't believe it.
Maybe if I say it enough, maybe if I raise my chin and put my hands on my hips, maybe if I act like I believe it--then I'll believe it.
It's not my fault, it's not my fault, it's not my fault
I stare into my reflection, meaningless words pouring from my lips
Mirror, mirror, on the wall.. who's the most broken of them all ?
It seems to whisper back
Broken you maybe, young man -- but I see one broken more still.
Someone with nothing but blood in his eyes and no person to love. Someone who fell into darkness until, one day, to ease his pain, he had suddenly become a serial killer.
Mirror, mirror ... Couldn't I have become that man myself ?
In another world -- a boy, damaged by an accident, growing up alone and reserved, with nothing but the shadows as his constant companion.
That boy could grow into a twisted teenager, who could grown into a twisted man.
... But I think I understand
None of that happened. What more do I need to worry about ?
Maybe I disfigured an innocent student. Maybe I stabbed a human being. Maybe I took part in a nightmare that never should have been dreamt.
But in this world -- in this circumstances -- I'm not a twisted, lonely little boy.
I grew up showered with love, surrounded by friends, given an ordinary school life.
The me standing here and now... wouldn't voluntarily lift a pipe or a knife to hurt someone without purpose.
Because I'm ... not anyone else.
I really like this words from Lucid 9 so I want to share it.
I think ... I've been here before
That's right. This ... is a familiar road
There's a sign at an intersection. I think. It's rickety and rusted.
Worn from use
There's no words on it. Just two arrows: one pointing forward, one pointing backward.
I'd ... just like to stay here.
A fork in the road... is such a dangerous thing
Left. Right. A one-time decision. And -- if it turns out that you run into an obstacle - then you'll find yourself wishing that you made the other choice
Then... don't you start overthinking everything ?
What if I'd taken the other road ?
What if the other road was worse ?
What if there was another road, if only I'd looked harder ?
What if I hadn't taken a road at all ?
What if I'd gone backwards ?
"Two words diverged in a wood and I -
I took the one less traveled by,
And that has made all the difference.
A poem written by Robert Frost, originally intended to be a simple teasing joke.
A hint of playful satire at indecision
But people saw it as something else.
Even though they weren't poets, they started adding their own kinds of verses to the composition.
Independence. Individualism. Science, discovery, curiosity.
Free will and the human condition.
Poor Robert Frost. Suddenly, he had written an entirely different poem even without touching his pen.
Two roads diverged in a wood, and I --
I took --
I--
"Here comes a candle to light you to bed.
Here comes a chopper to chop off your head
Chip chop chip chop, the last man's dead."
Sometimes ... I really wonder about children's nursery rhimes
Why do we let young kids listen to such twisted ideologies ?
Children aren't supposed to deal with that kind of stuff
They're supposed to be innocent...
Supposed to be ... innocent...
"Jack and Jill went up the hill to fetch a pail of water.
Jack fell down and ..."
...
... ?
My world ... suddenly feels warm
What is that ?
Why is it happening ?
...I suddenly get the impression that I'm awake
I think someone's holding my hand. The tips of my fingers feel warm, like they're being cradled in a loving palm.
Everything else is blinding light that drills into the back of my eyes.
Home. Home is here.
Home ....
... I dream a little longer
My dreams are softer, now. A little more delicate, like lace instead of sandpaper.
... My eyes peel open, sluggishly, like they haven't done so for a decade.
My muscles feel weak and lifeless. Spindled slugs on a sidewalk. My throat's dry and my head is smarting.
So. Looks like I'm in the hospital.
I notice that a nurse is at my bedside, fiddling with the IV drip on the table. She seems... tired. Drawn eyes, tight frown.
I clear my throat to get her attention.
---
It's not my fault
I decide to say this to the mirror every morning, even if I don't believe it.
Maybe if I say it enough, maybe if I raise my chin and put my hands on my hips, maybe if I act like I believe it--then I'll believe it.
It's not my fault, it's not my fault, it's not my fault
I stare into my reflection, meaningless words pouring from my lips
Mirror, mirror, on the wall.. who's the most broken of them all ?
It seems to whisper back
Broken you maybe, young man -- but I see one broken more still.
Someone with nothing but blood in his eyes and no person to love. Someone who fell into darkness until, one day, to ease his pain, he had suddenly become a serial killer.
Mirror, mirror ... Couldn't I have become that man myself ?
In another world -- a boy, damaged by an accident, growing up alone and reserved, with nothing but the shadows as his constant companion.
That boy could grow into a twisted teenager, who could grown into a twisted man.
... But I think I understand
None of that happened. What more do I need to worry about ?
Maybe I disfigured an innocent student. Maybe I stabbed a human being. Maybe I took part in a nightmare that never should have been dreamt.
But in this world -- in this circumstances -- I'm not a twisted, lonely little boy.
I grew up showered with love, surrounded by friends, given an ordinary school life.
The me standing here and now... wouldn't voluntarily lift a pipe or a knife to hurt someone without purpose.
Because I'm ... not anyone else.
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