If you find a way to feed it,
help it grow,
and keep it alive;
it will find a way to feed you,
help you grow,
and keep you alive.

Whatever happened to the moments
we lived for
the moments we lived from
electrifying lives
currents of passion
high voltage that knew no resistance

what do I have to do?
to feel the surge
to feel the spark
to feel alive again?

Is it in the tomes?
Is it in the songs?
Do the muses hold it in the walls?
Is it inside of me?

Searching for the switch
to send me back to passion
To make me feel charged again
to make me feel in charge again

I've done things on my own
gotten to relearn pieces of me regrown
I'm still making up for the way things were
finding the girl I was when I was her
boy, do you miss me yet?
I'm making myself proud
I've found my voice, I'm getting loud
And I'm not quite there but I'm en route
haven't yet attained it but I'm in hot pursuit
boy, do you miss me yet?
and of all the pieces of you that fell away
the music we shared just seems to stay
it stays and stays, won't go away
it won't diminish, it won't decay
boy, do you miss me yet?
And just like I used to listen to you singing in your car
I can hear you forgetting me, tires kissing tar
it's been two solid years and I need to know
boy, will you ever let me go?

I'm gonna trace it down on wooden end tables
on tiled floors
on carpet runners and floorboards
on asphalt, cement, brick walls

I'm gonna trace the cast shadows on my good days
when a moment seems too good to be true-too fleeting
I'm gonna walk around getting it all down just the way it was

the grand shadows of the trees lining the street to my house when I'm coming back from long boarding
the delicate shadow of the glass vase on the table at the cafe when you smilingly whisper to me the secrets you're composed of

I'm gonna outline the shadows of moments with white chalk
like they did in the movies when someone died
because these moments are coming and going too

and memories aren't enough for me anymore
I need solid proof it was all real
shadows of moments just the way they were

I can feel my heart rate slowing
my thoughts caught between going a million miles a minute and lounging in the tempered water of those smarter than me
I am simultaneously comforted and overstimulated by this modern artist who attempts to explain himself in a media foreign to him: words
His reality exists in color fields and weathered linen
In re-stretched canvas and the gentle pull of paint layering itself before him in a matter so beautiful that he's afraid to **** it-ignoring the fact that he's bringing it into existence
To see his work and grasp a whisp of what it is he is trying to convey
This is my drug of choice
To be drunk on the sobering reality that we equally overthink the merging of memories and hapinstances and movement; light and shadow, tints tones and hues, a balance between respect for what the art is trying to do and trying all the while to control it in a manner that it may capitalize on its investment in itself-on our investment
of time, of thought, of failures its taken to get here, of learning
Why would I go searching for something to stimulate my mind when it's nearly 3AM and I can't get it to stop?  Nor do I desire to make it stop
May I be strung out on this gift all the days of my life