This is an installment of my series My Life’s Playlist.
Today’s feature is the most truthful song ever written: From God’s Perspective by Bo Burnham.
I have nothing more to say besides what I’ve already said. This is the most truthful song ever written. Bo Burnham is George Carlin’s replacement in the world, and although I appreciate Carlin’s genius, I’m extremely happy that I am living the time of Burnham.
I was lying awake the other night, listening to myself breathing and waiting for the weight of my eyelids to send me off into the black abyss of sleep. I started to observe the nature of what constitutes breathing, the constant of in-and-out, the expansion and contraction of the lungs to circulate oxygen to the body. This little observation of myself led to my brain having a spark that bolted me back up and awake. The below is my attempt to get this spark into words.
Well, kids, it’s that time of year again. The wind is getting chilly, the grass is getting brown, the trees are stripping down, and the fat man in the red suit is parading through the streets with his big ol’ bag of goodies. I freakin’ love this time of year. I love winter. Snow is the best thing that this amazing planet can produce in my opinion. Fuck diamonds and gold and all that shit. Give me a snow day and I’ll show you someone happier than a dog at a cat rescue.
I’ve been hinting at this post for a quite a few days now, and finally I think I’m ready to start typing. I’ve been running into a serious problem in my daily life lately, and for a while I couldn’t put my finger on what it was. Now I know. Empathy is dying. The actual concept of empathy seems to be seeping out of people day by day, and every time I talk to someone about something, anything, the proof of its slow and subtle demise is even more prominent to me.
You tell me a story with a moral. You tell me the story is true, and therefore the moral means something. The moral promises happiness if I follow the steps of the story. I tell you I know a different story with the same moral. My story has different steps, more vague, more malleable, and this appeals to me. I don’t know if the story is true or not, but I know that I like it better than yours. It’s just preference, it’s nothing personal against your story. You stick with yours, I’ll stick with mine and we’ll both get to the same moral at the end. No harm done.
The pain on your skin
covered in creams and tearflow
is no match for me.
I’m on the cusp of something golden here.
You could say I’m phobic of the fall, and that is not merely reserved for the breeze-wobbled stairs up to the water slide. I shrink away from the railings on the second floor of the mall. I hugged the inner walls, eyes clamped tight, and counted my breathing while visiting the Eiffel Tower. I’ve had nightmares of falling forever into the Grand Canyon. And there are times when the cliffs are invisible, and my soul knows not how many more steps until the plunge; that moment of heart in throat, floating in nowhere, a flash of eternity before your bones become dust on the distant floor. Continue reading