Really, Mumford?

I'm a fan of self-articulated thought, but I'm needing to borrow Marcus Mumford's more and more frequently. It's a bit of a battle because I know I'm not the only one listening, but I might still be the only one thinking.

When I sing White Blank Page, there's no Little Lion Man echo. There's no Hold On to What You Believe echo. There is only the echo of my hopes, the hollow ring of stones cast into a stream that could have led home but leads nowhere instead.

There is only the echo of my strength stretched thin as the chance of a moon-sighting in Midtown, as thin as the bow that plays a weeping violin. There is only the echo of my deliberate wishes falling flat on lost ears, my thorough speculation spinning and spinning like my head from week to week.

I've noticed I write less when I'm happy. Maybe moments worth savoring are too majestic, too precious to immediately boil down to type. I sit instead in the rays of smiles around me, focusing not on the translation of joy into text, but the translation of joy into hope.

I translate hope and the lack of it into text because thinking alone is even worse than sitting alone. It's even worse than dreaming alone. Don't get me started on hoping alone.

(Pandora just shot White Blank Page at me, bee tee dubs. Shot is a good verb.)

These big words--think, dream, hope, wish, love--they hit the page with no force, yes? They are overused. Empty, even?

Au contrare, doll. They are overused because they are not understood. They are overused because their spectrums of interpretation are as speckled as a Pollock painting; each burst of color is relative, but subjectivity does not detract from existence. These big words are big enough to churn minds and hold souls, and those reaches are vast enough to keep exploring.

On another note, big hope is gonna go ahead and sit in my back seat for a while. That's where my ejector seat is.

God is good God is good God is good God is good God is good. And I am better off.