without mythologies

clicky click click.

this was the first thought I had when I read the prompt for this week, its been a while since ive done different takes kinda, sorta, not really, you get the idea.

back in college, I was living in San Francisco, im not entirely sure why it plays such a large part of my family's narrative, but it does.

while living there I discovered that it was a wonderful place to live so long as you had money, otherwise its cheaper to sit around doing nothing or drinking alone watching seasons of whatever is on Netflix.

I thought I had a point in there somewhere...

right, one of the few times I actually did take advantage of living in a cultural mecca of sorts involved me going to a show in soma, there was this band that I had liked (and still do) playing and the tickets were like twelve bucks. this was music I had been immersed in during a short period of my life in which I was generally happy and optimistic about the future, I was doing well in school, expanding my creative blah blah whatever, drinking wasn't a problem yet and I was in love with a woman who... yeah well anyway.

what was cool about the whole thing is that they are some random Canadian band that I accidently stumbled upon several years before. it really was one of life's little gifts.

and it was an awesome show.

it was a good, good night.

anyway below are the lyrics incase you cant read my handwriting.

Without Mythologies - The Weakerthans

A soft breeze with the slippery concrete black and full of muddy slush,
contrasting with the hoarfrost,
clean and hung on a tunnel of silent shivering trees
(the ones you said you'd like to be),
and the birds that screamed at the sun
now buried deep down below the ground,
beneath the snow, I press my shoulder to this wall between us.
I know you are behind me and I press my shoulder to this wall,
determined not to turn around.
I do and see you standing,
still that statue that I molded in my mind to kiss,
so beautiful you'll never move again.
Someplace far away, at some sad table littered with chipped plates,
with bad light,
in 48 frames from a movie on the cutting room floor,
you said "True meaning would be dying with you",
and though I wanted to, I did not smile.
But now I will give up on this wall that I have fought with,
never uncover meaning behind our rich words.
If I could I would make you a raging river,
with angry rapids, supplied with rain,
so you could always meander
and forever be able to run away
without contending with myths wrongly interpreted, with pain.
A harsh wind.
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