All I need is one life, one try, one breath
I’m one man
What I stand for speaks for itself, They don’t understand
Or wanna see me on top, too egotistical
Talkin all that slick shit, the same way these bitches do
Wonder what my secrets is…
All I need is one mic
-Nas
If this were yesterday, back when I walked across the college campus feeling life, feeling the people, determining my own way, my day would be filled with poetry. I wrote all day long. Songs walked through my mind, danced awhile, and then gnawed at me until I let them out.
It was like an itch you had to scratch, some long over-scabbed wound that just wanted to bleed a little more. So, I let it bleed…right onto paper, into musical keyboards, and into a four track digital recorder. That was how days passed…feeling the itch and letting it bleed. It was satisfying. Wounds weep and here comes the bass line.
Regardless of how hard I try to fight it, or how much I try to ignore it, the reality is that all things eventually come to an end. The reality is also that somewhere between birth into a sterile hospital room and the inevitable decay of my form back into earth, there is a whole life that needs to be lived. My one fear is that I won’t live it well enough. It’s starting to itch.
I think somewhere in between World War II and Vietnam, men in society began to lose their grip…maybe even their sanity. Fathers left their emotions, and often their families. Sons grew up without guidance and the world began to eat away at whatever fire used to make them all strong. The next generation was a little weaker.
The following became a 2 dimensional facade of a man with no old courage to pull from. The wisemen of the tribe died a long time ago. Our last hope is that DNA is more persistent than Oprah. It’s starting to bleed.
I think mentioning the name of this website in this passage is cheesy as hell. The truth is, the wound is deep and this is the one place I can pour it into. Every moment of energy or weakness, loss or orgasm, love or scientific investigation can be left on screen. This is my old textbook with the lyrics written in the corner. This is my clubhouse. This is my microphone.
In the end, I wonder whether the soldiers will become extinct. The men who can as easily write the history books as they can live through them seem to be lesser in number today. They are the men that notice there even is a problem and will die doing something about it. That is what this place stood for. That is why I keep coming back.
Maybe they’ll fight and take it all back, or maybe they will forget what they were fighting for. Either way, I have my fingers on the keyboard…because that wound never heals.
Professor X
For T-Nation.com