Of the zombie who thought he knew how to live

9 Aug

I remember once when you used to fascinate me. Excite me. Entertain me.

You were all about living life to the fullest but, darling, you took from life and begrudged giving anything back. You wanted to be a free spirit, unchained, unfettered and not tied down.

Women loved you. Adored you. Fawned over you. Now you no longer have women queuing at the revolving door of your bedroom, you’re feeling unwanted.

I’m not sorry for you. It was always, always about you. You never gave of yourself freely. Oh, you were generous with stories and the random joke. But you didn’t understand what it meant when a woman loved you. You treated affection like candy: sweet, cheap and readily available.

So now you’re all alone. It scares you, perhaps? Maybe this time you’ll learn to live and care like you mean it. Being alive means being open to hurts, being able to give as well as take, and fully appreciating the people who help you understand what it means to be truly alive. To feel pain as well as pleasure, to take sorrow’s cup as well as the wine of joy.

I have no time for the living dead.

Somebody, hold me too close,
Somebody, hurt me too deep,
Somebody, sit in my chair
And ruin my sleep
And make me aware
Of being alive,
Being alive.

Somebody, need me too much,
Somebody, know me too well,
Somebody, pull me up short
And put me through hell
And give me support
For being alive,
Make me alive.

Make me confused,
Mock me with praise,
Let me be used,
Vary my days.
But alone is alone, not alive.

Somebody, crowd me with love,
Somebody, force me to care,
Somebody, make me come through,
I’ll always be there,
As frightened as you,
To help us survive
Being alive,
Being alive,
Being alive!


One Response to “Of the zombie who thought he knew how to live”

  1. Sandra September 8, 2009 at 8:15 pm #

    This reminds me very much of someone I know. He wanted someone to love him exactly for who he was but was too afraid to go beyond acknowledging that love and wallowing in it; insisting that he loved being alone, but all the while bemoaning his loneliness. That’s the thing about people who make everything about them: they’re so busy ‘finding themselves’ and ‘dealing with their own issues’ and making everything about them that they fail to see what’s right under their noses, and they fail to realize that sometimes, it has to be about others too.

    Unfortunately we can’t always help them, much as we want and try to. After a while the sympathy just turns into impatience, and then when they realize what they wanted was there all along, it’s too late.

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