the dark side

i sometimes wonder why we always like the crazy; why we always like the tragic deaths, the unfinished stories. why we crave for the likes of syd barret and jim morrison, why we yearn for the young dead, what is it about the sad endings.

does syd barret show us who we really are? do the likes of jim morrison project a reflection to the hidden self of soceity. is that it? is it really that? it makes sense sometimes because we humans have been trained for so long, and now begin our training so young, that we have forgotten how we are animals, forgotten our basic instincts. it springs forward each time there is an emotion, be it love or rage. at times i wonder how we would appear to the early man, with us wearing clothes and ornaments and labels and tags; i wonder if we met an animal with equal intelligence as ours, how he would take to us. is it because of this we like jim morrison. is it because of this that when he shouts "Mother, i wanna fuck you", while some part of us fearfully cringes, some part of it shows our untamed self who we really are.

some don't like these people. but do they not do so because they are afraid, or have trained themselves not to look. some of us live in awe of these people, are these the worst of the lot; aren't these, like me, the warriors that didn't show up. why do we always like the eccentric, or have a soft corner for these bad apples, the rotten eggs. these are people who pursue the ideal, and settle for nothing less, or simply can't help it because they are blinded by their selfish imagination. we are few, we need validation, are we really that few, or we are the ones that never mattered. the farmer will always cry for the one sheep that got lost, is it because of this we miss them, because they are the missing ingredient. i wonder why we call them missing, because they are missing, or because we need them.

who were these people. they were a critique to the human race. they were a critique to the fact that we have either forgotten to be human, or changed the definition. they were born on the figments of imagination, and thrive on the edges of glory. they are romantics, they are disdainful. they are the troubled ones, they are the ones who were never understood. 'you don't understand, you can't see this, you don't know what it feels like', they said. is it because of this that we like them, that we feel the same way. were they crying for beauty and looking in the wrong places, or the places they went had never been given any light, or had all the light taken away from it.

the dishevelled wolf thrives in the dark
but searches for the light
it finds calm and solace in the dark
but can only see the light

it's goal is the light, but journey is the dark
for hours and hours, it travels in the cold
till the end, from the beginning
it can neither see nor hear anyone
like no can see it or hear it

-the wolf