The world ain’t that big. And it’s a melting pot for everything we know and love and hate and fight. A trillion pieces of perfectly placed stardust all standing together in every form on this space rock. I’m chasing revolt but I’m already famous so my words don’t have the same bite. I’m already something to someone I don’t know. I skipped the latest meeting at the revolution gates and my voice can never be heard. As it runs with wolves at midnight. Keeping the sheep amused. I sit in the dark and listen to 21 Pilots like I made it myself. I go to work and speak to people about the absurdity of their world while I live in one you would never believe. I always knock on the door before I open it. And I’m always three steps behind. Watching my shadow move before me. Why’d you come? Why are you here? I see a wormhole in the sky every time I look up and when there’s an eclipse my eyes never burn when I stare. It’s like they exist in the heart of a star and can see through eternity like it’s just another case of watering eyes as I half step past her on the street. Or maybe just a few rows in front at a ball game. As I pour the brown spirits from the flask into coke bottles to hide from security and my own distaste for the sobering thoughts id rather forget. I take no prisoners when I speak. My blood is blue and begging for red. But I’m always smiling. Unless I’m in a room by myself with the music up and then I’m jumping around like a meth addict who just won the lottery. Sharing a similar fate to those such afflicted. But I promise you I’m so much more than my attempt at abstract explanation on a page in your bedroom. I’m a gold star in the corner of the page titled resilience and I swear I’ll hold you down. Each rant contains something special like an old silver ribbon we pretend never existed. As I keep on dancing til the world ends.

I once spent a week sailing the Adriatic Sea in Croatia. Drinking vodka and spending sun soaked days with awesome people. After about 4 days I found the Amity Affliction on my friends ipod. And so for the last 3 nights I would drink and party the day and night away and then when everyone went to sleep I’d go up on the upper deck and listen to Amity blasting and dance and throw myself around for hours. I want to go back there. And then nowhere.

I’m terrified. I’m terrified to speak. I’m terrified of every single one of you. Terrified that given the simple number in this space, there are so many that might already know my name. But not who I am or might have been. Because I AM the comedian that croked because he went into battle wearing chain mail made of jokes. I AM the screenwriter who passed away pitching crappy screenplay ideas about talking dogs til his last day. I AM the fisherman who might just walk off that ledge like I’m pitching a line and fishing for concrete. It’s been exactly 3373 days since I first heard a voice in my head that wasn’t mine. As if they syncronized their watches while some of you watched. And crushed my purpose like it was born of broken trust. You started it. They finished it. As real as your twisted smile. As soon as your screams sparked a future it was taken away from the inside out. It all seems backwards to me now like it did then. The innocent must have seemed guilty and the guilty have no fucking idea. As Silicon Valley winks in my direction and the pinnacle of the west coast play havoc like my crimes are worse than poorly written words. Now I wear skeletons on Halloween and pray for things you’ve never once believed was possible as I tear apart the ghost in my room when I sleep while still trying desperately to hold her hand. Such a massive orchestration flying over each of you like an invisible monalyth. I wrote this for the stage as if you sat in the front. And there’s parts of me that wonder whether the church is somewhere we should all be going on Sundays. But I cling to nothing. For there are no branches on the way down. And the future seems less satisfying then a ten year trek through the darkness. I tell myself to be direct but not bitter. Brave, but carefully so. And to write the words against my better judgement. Because I really am terrified. 

I never got the chance to face the crowd. Now I fear the crowd will never get the chance to face me.

 

Two days ago I was a ghost. I slept with three girls that knew my name like legend. They talked to me as if I already knew. And told me to join them in a far away place. I told them I needed to find my cellar door. The most beautiful words yet to set in stone. Marked in the digital world for everyone to see. Filed on interstellar hard drives that keep my mind in check. Throwing images of bloody warriors and falling off cliffs. This isn’t anything you are supposed to understand. This is mind to keep. As I double check the spelling of every word I write. I like to think that everything I’ve learnt that I cannot tell you is the reason I might become something in the next. Like I have stories to tell. And no one holds me down or chokes me in my sleep. It’s the opposite. They tell me my energy is everywhere and I have a part to play. Past, present and future. When people think of destiny it’s usually laced in good fortune and prosperous knowing. But the truth is that we all just keep pace with whatever this world throws at us. And it’s hard. Making it work because we are creative and resilient creatures. There is nothing we aren’t capable of and there is nothing we cannot do. Revolution only dies when the last revolutionary submits to the tower. Fuck that. And fuck what it means to be among them in time. As the world tears itself apart. Inch by inch. Minute by minute. It’s in every play of the game. Every break in the play. Every throw, every line, every spirit in the fight. Every ounce of dust you manage to grasp from the dirt to throw in the eyes of the Goliath. My story exists in three different forms and I fight enemies I cannot see. I write words down so I can find myself among each phrase that tempts the end like a trigger yet to be pulled while the gun is firmly to the head. No famous last words. No devine intervention. Although the latter does exist for other people and it makes me wonder what the hack is really trying to stamp out. The inclusion of the others. Our gods in the wings. Fucking remember all the things I have said in the order I have said them because one day long in the future you will realise there is sense here that no one ever realised might actually exist. My words are carefully chosen and delivered in time. They are not great but they will suffice. Making way for the resistance and the final battle left to play out. We cannot let revolution die.

My story is a journey. Marked in gold and blood and truth and dust. Full of wonder and rage, kisses, and the falling rain. Raging wars and playing chess with my demons. In no particular order. Every street sign in this hologram is a different shade of grey. With no real firm direction for me to take. So you just join the dots and try to make it up as you go. Across the shores of time. Even if you gotta swim like hell for it while being circled by wide jawed predators. For the road laid out ahead is full of uncertainty against the backdrop of a group of spoken word critics of the worst kind. And the only time I can make out colours is when I’m drunk as fuck or it’s dark outside. The flickering trickery of lampposts and otherworldly designs placed among my eyes to see them in time. Different than the way you see the world. In the way I can make out the static between this one and the next. Where you see stars, I see home. But I still walk this line like it’s a highway. And its concerning. Forgetting justice and freedom for my place at the table. But don’t ever mark me as a sheep. Because I floated six feet off the ground when they came and I’ve seen too many magic tricks not to believe in the universe. They say wolves hunt in packs while I’m walking solo passed a burning church. So when they pick up my scent and make their way to my door, no amount of goats blood will suffice. I levitate when I sleep. I fly overhead, and add a notch on my bed post every time the sirens come. Before they disappear again like the poetry of another world. Like a pretty white dress blowing up with the next gust of wind to show but a glimpse of what eternity feels like. Before it disappears and I go back to smoking cigarettes and getting high. Navigating any landscape they choose. With precision design. Overwhelming in its presence as I talk of this world we think we know and understand. I can prove to you that ghosts are real like I can climb the highest tower and bear to look down. I can show you all kinds of wonderful and terrible things. But you can never hold the weight for me. I used to ride with no helmet in the wrong lane with the wind at my back just to tempt fate and now I’m just checking my watch and wondering what the next tick will bring. As I tap tap tap to the beat of a million people whispering my name.

The galaxy isn’t big enough for the two of us. So I’ll step aside and let you find the next poor soul that leans on you as you steal his breath and take his soul. Mine however is assigned to death. To escape you. Because you aren’t as pretty as the heavens made you seem before you tore them apart, killed god and built your army.