Monday, January 30, 2012
*Curse Of The Terminally Sighing People
Lately, there's been so much going on, going wrong, demanding me to suck it up and just be strong inside my orbit that it would be so easy to fling these great chunks of rage and hurl these bruise-colored blues soundly into the faces of people who are clearly unworthy of receiving them.
*Breeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeathe! Just Breeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeathe, Lin!*
The truth is:
I don’t wanna become one of THEM… one of those people… one of those woe-is-me people who constantly sigh. Those Chronically Sighing People, I call them… You know them: those people who speak in fluently blue tones, who brood and cry in terminally sighing moans. Those people who sing only sad and melancholy songs… those people who exist in sobbing fits of solitude whose only trick, kick or tic is a permanent facial grimace.
I don’t wanna become one of them. God, please don’t allow me to become one of those crying, hand-fixed-to-the-forehead, overly dramatic, habitually Sighing People!
I don’t wanna be one of those people who bitch and groan and feel alone, even in crowded rooms; nor a friendless soul who’ll only move to those slow sad drums of their own. I know some people don’t trust in different drummers for fear those drummers will fuck with the funk of their beat. But in the end, those feelings are so damned self-defeating.
So... I don’t wanna become one of them.
I don’t wanna be one of people who drown in a pain… so deep… even strains of Coltrane (or Manilow) can’t release them from their Indigo Trains of Thought. I don’t need the tremulous coo of some woozy crooner to renew, redo, re-blue my Blues, when they’ve already been blown Blue enough.
I just don’t wanna become one of them.
I don’t wanna be breast-fed by Nina Simone, mislead by Lady Day or led astray by Sade. I don’t wanna believe Joni Mitchell ever lied… even if that “Furry” cat died and really did 'play The Blues…' And though I love the Jazz and Blues idoms, I don’t want my Life to be a indigo-colored song that slides terminally from the reed of a dejected and sad-azz saxophone.
See, I don’t wanna be nor ever become one of Those People… those people who only speak and whine and brood and cry interminably. Don’t wanna be a member of that mind-numbing Cult of Terminally Sighing People…
So maybe today, maybe tonight, maybe if I try… I won’t be.
Instead, from the Beastly Jaws of Human Suffering, I'ma be the one who snatches the living HELL outta JOY!