A response to the millions of Congressmen in my own life.

This is a Man's World...
This is a Man's World...

The words drip down like water on my goosebump-clad skin. I make the lonely march down the double-yellow line of the deserted Boulevard, the overcast, yet tightly-stitched sky holding water overhead. The off-beats of the drum orchestrates my steps as i walk: Left...right...left...right... the sway pulling my heartstrings side to side.

I look left. Pinnacles of Classical Western Thought, Christianity, and Traditional Morality stand like crumbling marble, and bronze stained by ocean air. Depictions of bible stories and Anecdotes into depressions and busts. Lot's Mourning of his Wife and his friends. Abel being struck down by Cain. Mary covering her face from the crucified Lamb. Nothing to show Heaven. Nothing to open to paradise. The faces, though carved by imperfect tools, are contorted with human emotion. Pain. Anger. Jealousy. Shame. Regret. Despair. Joy.

Man made the Electric Light to bring us out of the dark...

It's almost too much to bear all at once. I lower my face.

I turn right. The revolution. Glorified impressions comprised of Oil and Earth lay before me. Brush strokes whimsically draw forth depictions of festivals, splashes of valor, and catacombs of power, all colored by passion and the nearly limitless hues of desire. Jovial settings. Calming settings. Settings of excitement. All seemingly forbidden. But the faces betray them. They lay complacent, devoid of truth and understanding. They have no depth, and only sickening images of cream cheese croissants invade my thoughts. I can see clearly the lack of depth in some of the paintings; others, i must stare a little longer.

Man made the boat for the water, like Noah made the arc..

I find myself biting my lip at the Paintings and Clenching my fists at the statues. Blood drips from my lips and my palms. There they stand, petrified in motion, having what i lacked, or maybe i had what they lacked, but whatever it was, i was alone. They all had something, or didn't have something, that was a burden to myself. They were all stuck, content, not trapped on a road that forever pointed in an obscure direction. I would turn back, but i haven't figured out how to turn around yet.

Many a times i've just sat down in the middle of Road. I've prayed there. I've slept there. I've sped, ran, sprinted down that yellow line, knowing full well i couldn't ever turn around. But i've always been there, never truly stepping onto the sidewalk.

Again i march down the double-yellow, the beat swaying my chest. I cannot stray too close to one side without pendulum swinging to the other. I cannot allow my skin to get too hard that i lose color, nor can my colors become air-brushed that i lose the capacity for depth. But this line, this yellow, double-line, has become suffocating.

I step to the left. Three to the right. My arms stretch outwards. My body unravels. Marches become leaps and poses and spins. I feel the words and the strings and the beat garnish my appendages as i lay out my body. They flow from my goosebump-clad skin in awe. The feeling arises withing my core faster than the speed which i spin on a toe.

"You see... This is a Man's world."

I Dance amongst the burning of Sodom and the falling of the Twin Towers. "This is a Man's World... This Is a Man's World."

I flee down the double line, a spin comprised of my entire emotive capabilities. "But it wouldn't mean nothing..."

The Statues fall.

"NOTHING...."

The paintings fade like water-colors. I Lay exhausted on that yellow line.

Without a woman or a girl....
He's LOST... in wilderness
He's LOST... in bitterness
He's LOST... in loneliness

NOTE: please check out the link for the song. It'll make more sense.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=7Iew1oYAfFs