New Orleans Swim Team все тексты (слова) песен, переводы, видео, клипы

This has been one of the strangest attempts I've ever made at making peace. Like the greatest piece of advice I was every given was that you have to learn to accept the person you see in the mirror because that's who you have to wake up and face each and every morning. My dad told me that, and I think it came from his dad before him. His dad was a musician, and sometimes I wish someone in the family could talk to me about what it's like to be one. To be anything. To be anything that exists because you feel it pulling from inside yourself. And that's why I'm here, dripping wet onto this page to try and make some sense of every near-identical page before it. That's all I've been doing since I realized that I'm alone inside my mind. Is that selfish? Hardly, I think. Because I know I'm not alone.

Everything I have thought and felt has the potential to be analyzed and questioned by every person around and before me. We just don't always have the liberty of talking about it. Because what, it's not like anyone cares, right? It's not like anyone else worries about the masks their friends put on, or that fact that two people walking down a street at two AM is the loudest, most deafening silence they've ever heard. You're wrong. We were raised to ignore the things that inconsequentially matter. To niche ourselves into groups that are so well versed on a particular subject that there is a starting point from every inane and repetitive night we plunge into readily. But you're the only one that thinks that, aren't you? You're the only one who grew up with a song in your throat, or paint on your cuffs, or a plan to get you out of every contingency. You dreamt. You picked what you were, or could be, and what that meant to you and you alone. So you set out. But that melody that struck you on the walk home is in some weird time signature that you can't remember, or the mountain you meant to sketch ends up looking more and more like the hill in your backyard with every stroke. It falls apart.

No one wants to hear how your business is doing, or how you won that figure skating medal, because it just reminds them of the dreams they had and left behind for whatever excuse they spit out as more a question than an answer. You peak. You beat your head against your hands because you don't know how to do better. The mental picture you spent hours hiding from the world is getting farther and farther behind piles of paperwork and deadlines to make. Your third grade self wants to know what you've become. Everything your hands touch is supposed to be the big one. The one that you accept. That you proudly label as the potential your mind cultivated made flesh. But it's hard. It's damn hard. And you're doing it so utterly alone. Your mouth moves too slow for your head and everything comes out wrong. Painfully and completely wrong.

They're scared by the fire in your eyes as you lay out what you think matters. But they're the same. Bubbled together, wishing just to be understood in terms they can accept. Your something became an anything. It's not you defined on paper anymore. It's the experienced reactions of others that define what you do and have done. You're not alone. We're all throwing sentences and ideas and songs and half thought out monologues in hope of someone grasping the essence of what it is to be you. To see and feel the world as you understand it. But, I can't write for you. This is what I wrote, crudely pushing my understanding of the world through a medium that may or may not be understood. This is my reality. How I see love, potential, art, the mind, friends, thought, and the concept of writing as it applies to be you and I. It's simply refusing to believe that no one else can feel this.

This was the second time I'd seen you, it was about eight years later. You cut across in front of me carrying six bags off an elevator. I knew in that instant you were the same thing I saw when I was a kid, though amidst the pause and shock of awkward remembrance, I was caught off guard by the lack of resemblance to what I had painted being young and willing to see past the bark to get to the best of everything. In your trail I heard some kind of symphonic sound through your headphones, resting on the ironic scarf dangled from your shoulders. Awkwardly skinny and doubled over. Folded together, bony arms holding a cellphone. So poignantly painting, "Connected, yet alone". I want to write about you and how you've changed, though it becomes increasingly apparent you must have been the same between then and now. You move just like you did. You still carry the confidence I admired as the kid who sat across from you in the mall. So lost, so small, your tortoise shell glasses make eyes so tall. What happened, then? You drip with pretension. Avoiding the public eye as if to get some attention? You were a novel in the eyes of a ten year old child now the whispers of theatre geeks and old books compiled. You notice me staring at you from a table across the room, while the last thing I want to do is be an enabler, it's too soon.

You're prouder now, and show it by looking haunted. A show stopping performance of not caring, is that what you wanted? In the eyes of a child you were a model of difference, to be broken away like seeing kids who would hop a fence and leave some to one side, too weak to break authority. "So why not just dress differently to say that I'm me?" The answer is more clear to a ten year old mind than your arts degree turned retail clerk life can define. If you want to be something, let loose what's within, never forget that clothes simply end at the skin. You painted a picture for me once, vividly, though that was more imagination than anything. Your eyes like God's judgment looking up from a hole, seeking your professor's thoughts on what is or isn't a soul. You're the music player your left hand is holding. You were an eight year old memory that has tarnished, not golden. Like your presence felt years ago in this same room, the funny part is I almost turned out just like you.

(You were painfully beautiful so long as I wanted you.
Any time things went wrong, I told myself that wasn't true.
You weren't the pine tree I climbed up so easily.
You were the lack of even knowing my anatomy.)