[Please be careful out there, I know
We don't always know the exact way back home.]
I'm at odds with a spirit I harbor sometimes
when I cut the lights and the night sky is the only thing to guide us away,
or toward anything we might seek in the dim light of the fading summer.
I need a break sometimes to let you guide me,
somewhere far and detached from here,
in the deafness of canyons, in the silence of summer valleys,
in the glare of the stadium lights or,
in the reflection of my pleading face in your tears,
a night out after so many just lying awake with your ghost.
A night of solace after the phantoms and the wraiths of your affection.
I know it sounds strange, but I'd rather be alone than
to see this argument through to the very bitter end.
My story can end,
My campaign can drive to a stop,
fragmented and decayed
I'm at odds with distance and locales, plains and rough-sided hills,
There's a wandering ghost inside that longs and yearns to get out,
But to come right back home.
And it pines for this place before it knows any other
It can drag me from one jagged edge of the nation
to the other,
It can grip and guide me end to end,
But you can't satisfy a wanderlust without bridging all that distance,
Not in this city, not in this life,
(Don't you start, oh don't you start.)
My town and the towns it touches
are big enough that you could caress them
for a decade and still get lost on the long and winding highways;
you can still navigationally regret that left turn you made down a one way, or
almost always find yourself in a place you haven't yet seen, if you try hard enough.
I'm just driving, I'm just wandering,
that I'm just living recklessly and following everyone else's smooth procession
through what some may call a life.
I'm looking into the images of those familiar eyes and
they don't move,
they don't share,
they look right past me,
but into what?
You may have gotten farther,
ou may have gone further if you'd never even left at all.
The trouble is, when you've absorbed the spirit of a place for a decade,
and I have,
some of the novelty wears off,
some of the sparkle of something different
and new is lost
in the back of your mind.
It's your daily routine -
you wash your face,
brush your teeth,
adjust your tie
in the mirror,
check your stubble
or your mascara -
painting the door
on an empty house.
all the things,
all the roads you know
and the landmarks you unconsciously identify
to get to the next place, they're really
sort of meaningless
until you've left and come back again.
You feel a little spark of excitement,
the way you think your dog must feel when
you've had him with you on a long road trip,
and he's standing up and alert when you're
taking your freeway exit - your skin sort of bristles
ith some preternatural electricity from within.
when you're home again - in the city -
those same distant eyes,
they look around,
they look right ahead,
right past you and me,
where lies the motivation for moving forward with honesty?
i'm looking around for a lifeline