Skying

Feelings abound.

A touch of sky, brimming with overexposure.

It blinds you and makes you want to cry.

Sitting at the bus stop amongst the downtown mutants; men who mutter and women who shriek and cackle.

The crazies, nowhere to go. We cast them out. We don't care. We pretend they aren't there, and when a dark skinned man with no legs asks you for change, you say you have none, hurry along, get away.

Into the blistering wind.

Out of sight. Out of mind.

Are you as angry as I am?

(I've been crying at night, you know)

Every action seems futile.

I'm only human, I'm nothing - one of billions. One day, maybe soon, I'll be gone.

There will be nothing left of me, why should there be?

We're all the same. You and me, and the hobos and the pedos and poor.

You and me, and Obama and Bush.

The child slaves and the strippers, slippery around their poles.

Just repeating, spinning in circles.

We never grow up. We'll continue making the same mistakes.

Until there won't be any left to make.

You say, 'Georgia, you are young, and therefore naive. One day, you'll come to realise that life isn't fair.'

And I reply with a sound 'fuck you!'

I know that life isn't fair. It's glaringly obvious. It's staring us all in the face.

We walk quickly past the hungry, we ignore endless phone calls from the blood bank. 'I haven't got enough to share, there's only just enough to get by...'

Are white lies really okay? Are they really any better than the big black ones?

Are we so selfish and stupid that we are going to continue wiping out countless non-human species, because we don't really care? Are we really going to make this planet uninhabitable for ourselves?

My dreams are filled with the apocalypse. Dystopian waves of grief sweep my sleeping subconcious.

I cry when I find the ocean, she's a black tarry puddle. And then I look to see my brothers and sisters hungry and unchanged.

We really can't eat money. It tastes like chemicals and greasy thumbprints, the salty and clammy skin of presidents past.

I'll do what I want. I'll be a writer! And then I'll starve, unable to support myself, let alone my family of cats.

I'll beg on the street, cancer ridden, just like the rest of you.

I'll do what I don't want. I'll have a career! I'll pay thousands of dollars to study what I don't want to.

But I'll pay it off. Eventually. I'll let the days slide by, slipping away.

I'll never reclaim them, but that's alright with me.

I'll let the cognitive dissonance drown out the chaos that surrounds me.

Everything is fine. Nothing needs to change.

I'm angry, and I'm desperately sad.  

But I'm glad in the knowledge that if I make it through, I'll have achieved something.

Even if it's just life.

Just like writing this blogpost, as painful and terrifying that it is, I know I'll feel a little better afterwards.

I may even get an early night! I may even smile as I read Maya Angelou, my head on the pillow, the cats howling and attempting to kill one another.

Because it just is. It just isn't fair.

~

The Horrors are Faris Badwan, Joshua Hayward, Tom Cowan, Rhys Webb and Joe Spurgeon.

Skying is their third album and it is romantic, gritty, psychadelic and discomforting.

It's beautiful because the swirling scrapes of sound and the flatness of the singing will make you FEEL.

It might make you turn the volume dial to eleven, it might cause you to punch stop and shake your head to rid your brainwaves of the poison.

It might make you shrug and say nothing.

You might not even listen to it!

But it's rather incredible. It's rather effortless sounding. It's rather fantastic.

It helped me to get my hopeless anger out onto the computer screen.

Images flowing through my arms to the nerve endings that hit the keys.

It's helped me to feel clearer, even if I still feel far away from happiness.

At least it's given me some clarity to see the way back there.