Answer #41 - Recycle

Sticks and stones... flying.  I don't know what to make of it lately.

Wind shears of words. Opinion.

Someone will hate what I write. That much is inevitable. Am I'm bound to be effected by it? Good reviews, bad reviews, the reviews written with the sole intent of drawing blood for the sake of a good laugh.  [Come on, who doesn't actually buy into it a little, when it's done well?  The blood-letting, I mean.]  But still, whether confetti falls or lyric sheets are shredded, it's all scraps of paper, really.  In the end.  Just scraps of paper.

I wrote this idea into a song once, about a friend who seemed to be grabbing so hard at public affirmation of his work:  Little scraps of colored paper are falling down on you today - will just one minute in their favor let you dream your pain away?

Someone already hates that line. That much is inevitable.

Someone doesn't.

It's the scraps of paper that concern me lately.  They're like white noise on an old television set - against the backdrop of the occasional 'we interrupt this program..', letting me know that the world's always spinning wildly out of control, and despite my world-saving intentions, time passes, and I still find myself drawn by scraps of paper.  shiny scraps of paper.

I try not to think on it.

I try not to think on it, the way time is moving on
cause when the cows come home - it'll still be gone.
It'll still be gone...

What is the answer?  What to do with all of it?

ah... recycle.  Okay then.