Love Gamble

Yo, Imma just write right now. I got this jazzy ass smooth nigga buggin my ear right now, hailing from London, a Mr. Soweto Kinch. He's got me thinking .. about what? I don't know. But I'm typing. I'm just goonna type. I've been thinking too much you know, the writing has become deliberate. I've let go of dreams. Dreaming makes you gag at your own reality. Its sweet shit and all, but its also bad for you too. You know? Fuck that ish.

Sitting with a bunch of Arabs at a cafe can make a man really feel ignorant. They way you talk to your friends, you can't talk to these people. Their sense of humour is different. They are different from you, and every minute that passes while they jabber on in Arabic reminds you of this. It reminds you that you too, monsieur, are different. Differences are fun too, but too much of it is bad for you. The only real friend I have here is an Arab Canadian, my boy A- and I haven't seen him since New Years Eve, we've been so busy. Its shit. All of it. Don't get me wrong, I ain't mad. I'm not sad, either. This is reality, she IS a bitch, and you know what? She DOES bite. I ain't fighting it no more, I'm here, I'm not happy, but fuck it.

a lesson in fear:
it's not the objective, but
what it represents

Fill my life with shit that takes up my time. Gibran traded in for sales vouchers. Kafka sidelined for hours spent on websites browsing this style, those jackets and that other shit I do not need. Mont Blanc wallets, Armani jeans, Burberry watches, Zegna ties, designer colognes, Boss shoes.. its all material. But its all I have to keep me happy. Sad, right? Well, yeah. YOU do better. In this fucking arid piece of land, surrounded by material people in a material world. If you are not with us, you are a nobody. And I ain't never been a nobody. So, call me sad if you will, but I acquisesce!

avoiding truth is
like dodging bullets ... there is
art in denial

Ya'll hear me? Am I making sense? Who cares anyway? Read it from right to left, like its Arabic.. maybe it'll start to make sense.

This nigga Soweto just got on some Trumpet tip.. playing that instrument like he's about to cry. Music man, music is my soul. I need air, water and music. My funeral will be a 100 days long, I'll want them to play all the shit I love, play it loud, play it through the night. I want to live all over again through the music that shall play that day. Don' come if you got plans that day.

11:50 pm. Fuck, the days just pass by. Saturday- Wednesday. Just like that, two days off, and just when I was mid-sleep dreaming of arriving mail... the alarm hits a jazz note, and I, in my sleep, go kinda pale. Get up, get dressed in 5, hit the streets, find a taxi and here I'm Advertising Executive at work. Cocaine addict-like. The grind continues, this trumpet keeps blowing, and I just keep going. Sad life, sorry attitude, and a heart sinking evermore, ever so slow.

Things have yet to change
Maybe the future slept in
Set your alarms now!

Grey bricks, grey sky..wading through bills and debts almost waist high.. trying to keep from falling where there's no baseline... I elevate, stay climbin' stay climbin'... I'm in the maze, dreaming of free flight.. even the moon's face is hidden behind street lights. I elevate, stay climbin'. Its the gamble of love.. the love of life.

A guitar string vibrating, a measure of my soul, a breach in the silence...