“I tread a troubled track, my odds are stacked, and I’ll go back to black.”
By coincidence, I’m wearing all black today and Spotify chose that song and I think to myself, “I can’t believe that Amy Winehouse has been dead for more than 15 years now.” And I know I’m lucky that I didn’t die the same way, in fact, in that same timeframe. I got out.
But life, as it most certainly is prone to do, keeps happening. The pressure of similitude never ends, and I’ve come to know that it never will. That perhaps this is the very definition of life. Pleasure is fleeting, and for the most part, so is pain. The difficulty arises, especially for someone with my mentality, because every day is essentially the same day. (And this is the perfect, perhaps only, time I am to quote Janis, “It’s all the same fucking day, man.”)
That seems to be one common thread in the trail of dead. Boredom. Lather. Rinse. Repeat. This leads to belief in the mantra that “It’s better to burn out, than fade away.” Is it? I’m not looking to burn out. I’m not exactly fond of the notion of fading away either, but if that’s all we have, then why waste it?