today is thursday. reminds of the band. good band too. mountain ranges, mourning red bathed ridges. hows life going for you? did you have a good christmas? to me, it really didn't feel like christmas, just another sunday... maybe i've lost my christmas spirit. stab up at the trembling blue horizon, grey slides lazily off rooftops, lands on the incandescnent ground and dies. but i never really had the "christmas spirit" i guess. sure i enjoyed giving and recieving presents and i acknowleged that it marks Jesus' birthday (even though the 25th of Dec is actually Saint Nick's b'day, the guy santa claus is mirrored from), but i wasn't really wrapped in the whole christmas carols, decorating the tree, seeing christmas lights peope around the neighbourhood put up. i used to think that they must be so bored with thir lives to be bothered to do that. A flock of little men touch down on the thin surface of the porchlight, dawns footsoldiers return, to match twilight across our faces. but i guess those people should be admired for being bothered, sometimes it seems as if people in general are get less and less motivated to do anything. not to say everyone should put up extravagent christmas lights, but just that we should be more bothered to make an effort to enjoy ourselves. what a stupid thing is a cbf life. skylights ignite and explode, scattering shards of april around the room. it even sounds a little suicidal, doesn't it? if people are that unmotivated with life, sould they kill themselves? if they go on and on about not wanting to be alive anymore, should they kill themselves? maybe it would help them, sometimes i think, but the space left behind would be devistating. I'm lucky i've never lost anyone close to me to death. but that luck won't last forever. no one even lives here, we're too busy crashing our cars every morning at the same house. paving the same roads, unwilling to walk them. and a suicide is so emotionally confusing, a death itself is, but a suicide leaves so many more questions undone. and it cheats everyone who ever cared about that person. how selfish of the dead soul, but maybe they were just tired of everyone elses selfish lives, tired of giving. and even when we extend ourselves, its only to be included, in a moment that stands still. so often we don't struggle to improve conditions, we struggle for the right to say "we improve conditions". suicide is such a touchy and dangerous subject. its so easy to stay to one side of the issue, stick to the common belief that every life deserved to be lived, even if thats not shown through all of our actions. those people who disagree with that, what happened to them? where have they been? where have they lost all interest in life? was there even a reason or was there just the outcome? and so often we form communities, only to use them as exclusionary devices. we forget that somewhere a man is beside himself with grief. questions annoy me, answers that don't make sence annoy me even more. but i guess things can just 'be' without any reason or cause and to ask 'why?' would be a waste of time. like in my drama class when we had to do interpretations of scripts, there weren't set reasons why we did it like we did except that we liked it like that. but of course that is not a sufficiant answer. we forget that somewhere people are calling out for teachers and no one is answering. somewhere a man stands, walks across the room, and breaks his nose against the door. sometimes things don't work out right. like when someone calls sick an hour before the movie starts. or when you can't find your favourite pair of pants. or things that really matter, like when someone tries to kill themselves. it gives them a second chance, maybe one they don't want at the time, but something they'll apprecate later on in life. i don't think you can't appreciate anything when your dead. and somewhere these people are keeping records and writing a book, for now was can call it "the book about the basic flaw" or "the book about the letter 'A'" or any title that a book about a man that no one cares about might have". i'd hate to be forgotten. i hate feeling like i already have been.
and as we turn the pages we call out the sounds, the sounds of a vanishing alphabet standing here waiting...

...the crows are flying eastward...