I wish I was up-crazy, but I’m down-crazy.
I’m lugubrious and vainglorious and I’m bone-lazy.
I’d rather hang out with my dog, or any dog, than go out on a date.
I’d rather get high and stare up at the sky than face up to my fate;
It’s too grim to contemplate.
‘Cause all the doors are closed. The phone’s not gonna ring.
Everything has failed, and that’s a kind of freedom.
I’d like to feel a kind sadness, but I feel a mean sadness.
It’s the antithesis of the ignorant bliss of benign madness.
I’m acutely aware of and compulsively stare at the socially superior.
I feel the allure of fine cars and couture and a chic interior.
Mine couldn’t be drearier.
But It’s all out of reach. Money runs away from me.
This is all there is, and that’s a kind of freedom.
Shadows gather ‘round; other people look the other way.
I am now invisible, and that’s a kind of freedom.
I could black-hole back in, or I could big-bang back out.
I could lose so much I win; I could find certainty in my doubt.
Free-ness—what would it be like, I wonder?
An end to me-ness—the absolution of every blunder?
No more days gone dark with regret,
No more nights ablaze with what I can’t forget?
Somewhere at the edge of all of this, I see a sort of flower,
Pushing up its way through ice and rock with a stubborn power.
The silence of the darkness and the harshness of the cold have been appalling.
But it will not stop trying to emerge, ‘cause light and life are calling.
It’s rising even as it’s falling.
It doesn’t have a chance. The struggle is in vain.
But as hope has died away, it has found a kind of freedom.
It may not see another day, but it knows a kind of freedom.
‘Cause when everything has failed, hey-- that’s a kind of freedom.
Freedom, freedom, freedom.