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ever dumbening
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[See the_camera_eye for disclaimer.
—ed.]
The way out
Is the way in
The way out
Is the way in...
Out of touch
With the weather and the wind direction
With the sunrise
And the phases of the moon
Out of touch
With life in the land of the loving
With the living night
And the darkness at high noon
You can never break the chain
There is never love without pain
A gentle hand, a secret touch on the heart
Out of sync
With the rhythm of my own reactions
With the things that last
And the things that come apart
Out of sync
With love in the land of the living
A gentle hand, a secret touch on the heart
A healing hand, a secret touch on the heart
There is never love without pain
Life is a power that remains
-
Lyrics by Neil Peart
~~~
I'm frustrated. I feel powerless, foolish. How can I have traveled so far and still be standing here? Didn't I leave these lands behind? Haven't I learned anything? Even thinking these thoughts feels wrong. Was all that work and climbing just Sysiphean? I thought I had tools to deal with this. Though now, even my go to weapons feel heavy and blunt in my hands—surf and hike and read and write and run and cook and draw—not worth wielding. While others are just not within reach—conversation deep into the night or me deep inside of you.
And but so then I turn on Rush, always with a wry smile thinking of how many people violently hate this band that for years and years has consistenly repaired the under-engineered levees of my soul. And I listen. And I sing. And I swing my arms and hands, trying to recreate—in front of me, in my mind, a conductor of holograms—the light and sound that these three men must have consumed to fuel this music, these words. And I pray, in the way only an agnostic, armchair Buddhist, son of a Lutheran theologin can, that somehow the secret touch that I so clearly need is out there, and in here.
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