(This is my first attempt at writing something that sort of sounds like the crazy stuff you all have in the "Or Kill Me" section, and the BIP stuff. Tell me what you think, if it's good, hits the mark, or misses wildly, and if so, how long I have left to live before the golden robots come to assassinate me.)
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You wake up in the morning, for yourself
You drink your morning coffee, for yourself.
You half interestingly read the newspaper, for yourself.
And you kiss your wife good bye, for yourself.
On your way to work, you listen to the radio and drive in your car, for yourself,
And even if you didn,Äôt, it would only be for yourself.
Even if you all of the sudden started giving a fuck about what those dirty hippies thought,
It would only be, for yourself.
Even if you walked to work, it would be for yourself,
And even if in doing that, you gave some spare change to a homeless man,
It would be entirely for yourself.
So you wouldn,Äôt feel bad, about, yourself.
And eventually, maybe this starts to feel like a prison? Maybe this routine starts to get under your skin, starts to make you itch, and make you scratch, but it only makes it worse, because you are still scratching for yourself.
And then maybe, you start to realize that this is a fixture of your reality.
That the world revolves around you, unless you would be happier thinking otherwise. But the world ALWAYS revolves around you.
Maybe it starts to feel like a prison, with no walls, and yet not way to escape. A prison of reality, an inescapable foolproof cell, designed to be the perfect container. One that, if you wish to leave, it is only for yourself, and your own interests, and paradoxically in feeling that way, you lay another brick in that dark cell.
Or kill yourself?
If it suits you, fine, but it,Äôs no release.
You kill yourself, for yourself.
And wouldn,Äôt a happy ending be swell?
I,Äôm sure it would make you feel better about yourself.
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You wake up in the morning, for yourself
You drink your morning coffee, for yourself.
You half interestingly read the newspaper, for yourself.
And you kiss your wife good bye, for yourself.
On your way to work, you listen to the radio and drive in your car, for yourself,
And even if you didn,Äôt, it would only be for yourself.
Even if you all of the sudden started giving a fuck about what those dirty hippies thought,
It would only be, for yourself.
Even if you walked to work, it would be for yourself,
And even if in doing that, you gave some spare change to a homeless man,
It would be entirely for yourself.
So you wouldn,Äôt feel bad, about, yourself.
And eventually, maybe this starts to feel like a prison? Maybe this routine starts to get under your skin, starts to make you itch, and make you scratch, but it only makes it worse, because you are still scratching for yourself.
And then maybe, you start to realize that this is a fixture of your reality.
That the world revolves around you, unless you would be happier thinking otherwise. But the world ALWAYS revolves around you.
Maybe it starts to feel like a prison, with no walls, and yet not way to escape. A prison of reality, an inescapable foolproof cell, designed to be the perfect container. One that, if you wish to leave, it is only for yourself, and your own interests, and paradoxically in feeling that way, you lay another brick in that dark cell.
Or kill yourself?
If it suits you, fine, but it,Äôs no release.
You kill yourself, for yourself.
And wouldn,Äôt a happy ending be swell?
I,Äôm sure it would make you feel better about yourself.