A Beautiful Disaster

A beautiful disaster awaits a word or two ahead if you want it.

 It is strong, wild, and unpredictable. All you have to do is jump. 

The ground will collapse all around you, and you will fall. 

You will know what you're worth in the beautiful disaster.

Hey man, it looks like you got it made, so lean, sharp, and squared away. 

Everybody wants some, watching, looking for a way to fit.

You move through the days and act so innocent, waiting to be discovered.

The darkness falls, emotions red line, and you are ready to bet everything you've got.

All along, you know a whole ocean presses against the wall you are hitting.

Today was great because of all the people who carried it with you.

How can you be so presumptuous to think it was all you?

Beautiful disasters only shine for a while before they live in the unattainable void between love and hate. 

Will you thank everyone for making it so great?

Beyond your morning coffee, there is treachery and treason, 

You knew it when the sun began filtering through the trees.

You anticipate the stumble and fall from a moral platform you have no intention of holding to.

You are looking a mis-step to regret tomorrow, a door you should have never walked through.

It is the one-way trip you have taken, not yet, and already done.

The irony is that this mountain was forged by devastating explosions, whereas the alternate path is only made by thousands of years of soft erosion. Who would you want to be?

It is one beautiful disaster after another that brought you here. You hold something that no one can buy.

Is it better to obliterate the wall than to wait for a door that might open?

It was so much easier when the sun rose in the water every morning. 

You lived such a simple, uncomplicated life.

Walking the streets, looking for conflict to add to wisdom and experience.

You got what you wanted, pulling entire buildings down to make it happen.

The scars of climbing out of the rubble and dust over the years have made it difficult to get up in the morning. 

Pain runs deep, and it is the price paid for such a cavalier existence.

A thousand times, you have contemplated the right course of action.

A hundred times, you acted on it.

There is a conflict similar to nuclear power, which is friction that never stops.

Can you harness that and show it how to build?

You know that there is a point to all of the chaos.

It could take more than a lifetime to sort out all the contrasts.

One hundred thousand bytes per minute stream into your head; how do you sort that out and make sense of it all?

You have notes, words, and instruments in a room where physical laws won't play.

You never give up, though. That could be the fallout.

The scene around you falls into line, and you have everything at once in your eyes.

When you wake up, it is 1970, 1980, 1991, and 1999 all at once.

A beautiful disaster has dismantled time itself from your continuity; 

because of it, you see it all, which often makes no sense.

...

It is February.

This is what it is like to be in my head in the month of February.

<sigh>