Symmetry

Every beginning has its end.
No great story ever goes on forever.

No epic tale can be written in separate lives without sounding completely different.

Our ideas our different but the concept is the same.

"The Environment and You!"

A classic deadline-is-coming-soon-shit-make-up-something theme.

Stuck within my condensed enlarged cardboard box, I search for something to watch.

"Henderson, I need those portfolios done by 5."

I don't even know what the fuck my boss is talking about.

I settle on a live performance video I found on the internet.

Better work on those portfolios. Eventually, Soon, Maybe Later.

Staring at the same guitar strokes over and over brings out the thoughts you want to suppress.

It doesn't matter who people see you with during the day.
It only matters who ends up with you at the end of the day.

It only matters who touches you for the right reasons.

But those reasons go unnoticed.

After sleeping with girls with no names for about six months, it doesn't matter whether you touch them because you think they're beautiful or you just love their skin or if you want to use your fingers to work them up. Either way, they don't care what the fuck you think. You're an item from 12 am-8pm.

You could be a softy at work and be the one who tells the sports news, stock quotes, and stupid jokes at the water cooler. The one who picks up flowers for the lonely receptionist on the way out. The one who holds the elevator open for the custodian with his hands full.

You're still fucking phantom women at the end of the day.
That makes you someone completely different.

That's what people see you as.

Seeing Billie Joe back down from the microphone exhausted from a night's worth of playing reminds me of the fact that even though we may seem like Gods in the beginning, we're mortal in the end.

In the end, we're mortal.
So what's the point of stopping those urges?
The urges that make someone want to do something, but they stop themselves.
The urges I get that make me want to pull a fire alarm every time I pass one.
The urges I get that make me want to keep on walking past my car on the garage roof and straight off the wall.
The urges that make me want to punch things that should never be punched.

"This song is not anti-American, it's anti-war!"

The urges that make me yell things that come to mind in the middle of my office.
The urges that make me want to print anal porn on the public printer and see who walks by.
The urges I get that make want to unzip and scan my penis on the copier to see what it looks like actual size.

Those urges.

Why do we resist those urges?

Because it's not right.

Our superiors believe in restraint.

The restraint that makes us do what we don't want, but what's for the best.

The same characters pop up and you can't stop them from coming back.

The mailman with the ripped right pant leg.
The garage band with the spectrum hair and rainbow belts screaming insane lyrics.
The co-worker with bad breathe that you don't want to break the truth to.
The receptionist who never has a date because she lost faith in herself and men.

The characters you want to talk to but afraid it will mess up the balance.

Buy the mailmen new pants.
Go watch the garage band and give a few pointers.
Don't break the truth, instead offer a mint.
Don't fuck the receptionist, just hold her in a time of need and tell her the world is not her fault.

Nothing's her fault.

You don't have to force a smile when she tells you that you have a call on line 4 from this girl with an Australian accent and then smiles at you gently.

All my thoughts and memories get wrapped up because I can't act upon them.

It's not me.

I'm stuck at my desk job, but I don't want to do anything.

I'd rather watch a concert on the internet than go see on because of the money, the drive, the trouble of getting there.

I forget about the experience.

In the end, experience it what makes us.

The beginning is empty.
The end is empty.

We're the same on both sides.