" Just take those old reccords off the shelf; I sit and listen to 'em by myself.
Today's music ain't got the same soul; I like that ol' time a rock an' roll. "
[ K.H ] [ L.V ] [ N.A ] [ S.K ] [ R.J ] [ A.C ] [ D.A ] [ B.L ] [ P.K ] [ J.K ] [ K.K ]
Love, is a fickle business. Sometimes I find myself wondering if there's ever been a time that love was not man's greatest desire. Is it not what we live for? Isn't it the adrenaline pumping, the heart beating, the stomach fluttering, the hands shaking that we aspire for each morning we awake? It may not be the first thing running through your mind as you drag yourself to life. Might not be what motivates you as you stand before your mirror, analyzing your flaws. & Maybe the thought doesn't occur until the end of the day comes 'round, and you're crawling into bed, the vaguest sense of failure on your chest. But surely it's what keeps our lungs pumping, the blood running, the limbs moving. Surely; love is what orbits around our lives. Like the sun. Only backwards. & Unpredictable. But all the same it's what's got the clouds passing, the grass growing, the birds flying, life living. & I don't like that. In fact, I thoroughly dislike that. Even blind men can see that every turn ends up in the same place. There isn't a place in this world you can look that isn't obsessed with the immortal love business. Science & sense are irrelevant. It must have been quite the task; collecting the puzzle pieces that complete the world. For I'm sure that ages ago, before time was established & the days were numbered, the world must have been created using hundreds upon thousands of tiny shards of love. Whatever form love may have been then, it was harnessed & labored. Perhaps we all begin with a little in hand. We're thrust unceremoniously, clumsily into the world with a bit of love clenched in our tiny fists. & Somewhere along the road, perhaps within those first few hours, we lose hold. Curiosity dances past & our fragile fingers unfold to grasp at something new. Just like that it slips away & we spend the rest of our lives trying to get it back, unaware that we ever had it. That would explain the longing, I suppose. The lust for something that was once yours. Yes, I think that's what I'll believe. To a deranged & twisted mind like mine, that all seems to make sense. & In that case, perhaps the world wasn't created by love. But, rather, had love thrust upon it, in the fists of new born babies.
P H O T O.
G R A P H Y.
I may not have the softest touch;
I may not say the words as s u c h;
And though I may not look like much;
I'm yours.
And though my edge is maybe rough;
I never feel I'm quite e n o u g h;
And it may not seem like very much;
But I'm yours.
1961 Corvette Roadster.
- - vroom vroom - -