The Memorial Rainbow

I remember dreaming of a faraway land,
where the trains rolled on into the night
and you were always by my side.

It's not that I'm no good at expressing my feelings. It's that I don't know how to express them properly. Don't you think so? I think that when I want to say something, I think about the way I want to say it. I deliver it in the best way I can possible, soft and whispered in the middle of the night, loud and proud in front of a microphone, hidden away within my song lyrics so the person in question will never know. But because of this, my words have a lot of weight. How must it feel to be hit with truth time and time over again? Perhaps this is why so many shy away after I've shown them how I feel.

The water bottles,
the keyboard I can't understand,
the all too familiar view...
I'll shortly get rid of them.

People worry about me. Sure. But I think the person who should worry the most about me is me. Yes, I do love myself. That took me a while to figure out. I love myself. I should just stop hating others. I don't know how to properly deal with real people. For so long I've been "the only one," the one who writes music, the one who writes books, the one who is smart, the one who is beautiful, that they never knew how to categorize me well. And so I wasn't categorized at all. I hid away. I buried myself under a blanket. I made fun of myself and made myself ugly, made it the norm, so maybe I'd be normal. Maybe I could have some friends. And I suppose it worked for a while. But when I got to New York, all I did was remind myself that "I am the stuff legends are made out of."

Goodbye, and thank you.
You taught me what it means
to look for happiness
in the midst of sadness.

But what happens when the legend ends? What happens when you wake up in your own bed and you're not sure if this entire summer was a dream or not? A nightmare, in some places, I'm sure, but still a dream. One that turned strange at the end, and for a minute, I knew exactly what I wanted out of life. I remembered who I was beyond the chaos and the real world eating away at me, and I wanted to step forward and grab that. And then I woke up.

Perhaps I can find a way to keep going.
But the six train is too late.
I'm lost in a crowd at the station.
Do you even know where to find me?

I retrace my footsteps and it takes me back to 96th and Park. This is the area where the Metro-North trains go elevated, where the underground meets the sky, as they go in and out of the city each and every day. Now, these tracks seem even more real. I can understand that scores of people worked so hard to make this all a reality. Perhaps the world is not a dream, and my reality was the dream after all. Perhaps this chain link fence is really made of metal, perhaps there really is concrete below my feet, perhaps that train really is bound to exciting places such as Poughkeepsie. Although each of those Metro-North trains has to stop somewhere before heading out of Manhattan. I send a little wish on each train that heads out to the big unknown, hoping that the wish will shine, will reach its intended recipient.

The old CDs,
the faded pictures,
the memories...
I'll shortly get rid of them.

The bracelet I made is finally fraying. I wonder if I should just take it off at this point, considering that I'm here in New York and that I'm not going anywhere, despite what my mother says. I don't care if I get tossed out and have to live like a bum...okay, I care a little bit. I've started looking for places to live. Anywhere is fine, I suppose, as long as it's a room. I don't have to worry about making any noise now. But I don't want to disappear as I did before. There's someplace I'd rather be. I want to be on Top Thrill Dragster, fearless towards my goal, locked into the track with only one place to go: up. And if I rollback? I can't let it affect me like it did before. I'll just try again, knowing that the charge beneath my wheels comes from a different place now.

Goodbye, and thank you.
You taught me what it means
to look for myself
in the midst of you.

I've finally found the strength to go forward, but is it too late? Did I spend this entire summer throwing off everything that has ever held me back, only to not have anybody waiting for me at the finish line? What happened to the one who told me to get off the train? What happened to the one who said he would be my guardian? Perhaps I still can't see the world as properly as I need to, but at least I know the difference. The right words need to be recorded on the tapes in my head. Real world memories do not have to only mock. They can inspire. They can shine. And as for the bad memories? Honesty is always the best policy when you're with somebody. If you can't keep it honest, then somebody is getting a bad version of reality, aren't they?

In these far-off days,
I was always spinning.
I still have one wing left.

I walk back down to 96th and Park and wonder, if I just threw all of my old memories onto these train tracks, and they scattered to the wind, what kind of new memories could I make in this city I call home? I look to the north, and the promise that I won't soon forget, and the light of the silver moon. Perhaps this will all end in tragedy. Perhaps I will fall again. But I'd rather fall again, I'd rather feel something real, I'd rather chase my dream than hide away. I'd rather have somebody recognize me for who I truly am than try to be somebody I'm not to get attention. I think about it, and 'I try to search for an answer and it all comes back to you' comes to mind. God has gotten me this far. To hear his voice would be blasphemy. But I think I'm stronger now. I think I finally get what it means to suffer.

Hello, and thank you.
You taught me what it means
to look for the sunrise
in the coming dawn.

The clock on the wall continues to tick. I don't have much time left in this apartment. But as long as I stay fierce, as long as I remember who I am -- lightning, the potential, the charge, the raw power -- as long as I don't stop.

Don't stop.

Please.

Don't let it stop.

I will stay here until morning.
I finally have the correct strength.
I think I can go on as I am now.

When did I turn into someone
who forgot how to feel?

If you feel angry and sorrow, please don't blame me.

If you don't want to hear the words I have to say,
I'll turn them into a song only I can hear.

There are lots of things you wouldn't understand,
but there's a lot they don't understand.
How many of their pain can I handle?
Can I handle it at all?

It's rough, isn't it?
To take in the platinum world with your own eyes --
but it's better than searching for truth
in a world that doesn't exist, right?

The voice inside of me already knows where I am to go,
wherever I want.

If you don't want to hear the words I have to say,
I'll turn them into a song only I can hear,
into a voice that I hope finally reaches your ears.

After all,
it's better than searching for truth
in a world that doesn't exist.