Someday I'll Be Saturday Night

I dunno what's it got to do with it, but tonight's lifegroup somehow lead me to go on a quickie Bon Jovi binge run. I plugged in my supposedly-pretty-good headphones, fired up my old-school Bon Jovi collection, and closed my eyes. For some reasons I went mellow first. I first noticed the drum beats and how I play a lot of these beats now, though I haven't really been listening to these songs for a long time. I guess the subconscious really works. These songs influenced me much longer than the time I spent listening to them. Then the lyrics slowed me down. I'm so tired. God, I'm so tired.

I know I've been running myself ragged since Easter. I couldn't even sit down and read a book anymore. I got such a short attention span these days that I read a few words ahead everytime I try to read a book. I can no longer sit down and watch a movie at home. The longest things I can sit down and watch are boxing matches, which are usually an hour long, but that's only because they're split into three-minute rounds. I'm tired of running around all the time, a rat in a rat race. But I can't stop. Not easily anyway.

These songs remind me of that, of a time when I can relax. It's just a thought in my head, a huge chunk of data in my frontal lobe. I remember these beats by heart, and the lyrics not much further away. They almost instantly brought me back to those scenes. The city lights, the wet roads, the lonely CBD, the Starbucks, the nowhere-in-particular, the best car a man can have. The city is still there, the wet roads repeat themselves, the CBD is still lonely, the Starbucks are all still there, and the car I can get again. But the time will not come back. The memories will not revive. The midnight sing-alongs, the stomach-hurting laughters. God knows what we laughed about. The 1am BK, the 2am McD sundae. The cheap-ass [aka: free] fireworks session by the beach. The 4am Symmonds St. The kebab takeouts by the rugby field. We will never be the same, and we should never be the same again. I don't wish those times to come back. But the memories remain. I guess this is what true "home"sickness feels like. What do you do when your only experience of home is one spot in time? This is loneliness. The longing to belong, for a metaphysical place to rest a soul, a psychological cushion you know you can always count on. As it turns out, I'm not made of stone afterall, and this wolf isn't all fangs.

It's true, I gave love a bad name. Always. This is real life, and it ain't no bed of roses, but I'd die in a blaze of glory if that's what it takes. A lot of times I shout, "Hey God! Give me something for the pain!" There's no one else but us these days. But we live on a prayer, and we keep the faith. Most days feel like a Monday to me, but someday I'll be Saturday night.

The memories are of a time long gone. But I'd be lying if I say those weren't great times. When I'm tired, when I got no one to talk to, when there's no one I trust, when I feel weak and mellow [which isn't very often these days], the memories come back and I have to admit, I try to relive them in my head in vain hope to gain some strength and recover some comfort. I'd be lying if I say I don't miss those times. But at the same time I don't wish them back, because that would de-value them. They are best kept as memories, to remind me such a thing was possible. There is a home. It is possible to have a home, to be completely and utterly comfortable with people, to accept and be accepted all the same. It is possible to live among trusted people. I started writing this on a rather down state. I thought, there ain't no time to waste, nobody left to blame, nobody else but us these days. But by the end of it, I felt that I've seen a light somewhere. The stars ain't out of reach.

Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you for the memories.

Hey man!
I'm alive, and I'm taking each day a night at a time.
I'm feeling like a Monday,
but someday I'll be Saturday night!