The Flight of the Rocketman

And I asked Henry, my bartending friend
If I should bother dating unfamous men

And Henry said, "You're lucky to even know me.
You're lucky to be alive.
Your lucky to be drinking here for free
Cause I'm a sucker for your lucky, pretty eyes."

And then he said, "Do you want to be a Polyester Bride?
Or do you want to hang your head and die?
Do you want to find alligator cowboy boots they just put on sale?
Do you want to flap your wings and fly away from here?"
-- Polyester Bride, written and performed by Liz Phair

And despite how sleepy and tired I am, I still end up picking the pieces and opening the door for other people. I want to say "no" but at this point, it would be cruel and unfair since I've never said "no" before. I'm not a confrontational person, so for me to say "no more" would mean a whole long list of things that need not be said. Need not be said right now.

But already, I've been saying the "n" word. I haven't gone out in a while and I won't be in a long while. I've got to get my life back in order and going to the gym everyday and then going back home to read a book that won't end and working on possibilities that hope grow into something I can harvest.

At this point in my life, I really just want to spread my wings and fly away from here. Nothing I do is good enough for some people that really matter, and unfortunately, are so nearby that they can make their comments and whenever they please. Sometimes, you can never outlive your past from the people who have been with you since birth. It gets suffocating. And you know you did wrong, but some people will just never let you forget.

I guess that's the price I am paying. Things could be much worse. It could be a hell of a lot worse, I suppose. But I'm soft and weak and used to the good life. My skin is brittle, fragile, supple. I break easy. I will break easy nowadays. I easily fall for carefully placed words and indiscreet intentions on text. I'm so easily swept away. And I know that things will not be okay in the next few months.

I know that somewhere, someone is holding me high up above his or her head with a smirk. He or she will send me crashing down to suffer gravity and I will shatter into a thousand pieces. I can already hear the sound, it's been like a death knell, ringing and ringing in my ear. All I have to catch me is the knowledge that even I can survive this; that things will get better.

After all, there is no way else to go when you are down in the dumps but up.

The Rocketman is flying through the universe, low on gas, hoping to get home. But it isn't home he pines for. It is a different place. Hopefully somewhere better. Somewhere he can make his own. He doesn't step on the gas, but cruises on, floating through space. Hoping some distant planet's gravity will take him in and drag him closer and closer. Maybe to land on alien soil. And feel the coldness of alien air.