The struggle of all working artists who haven’t broken through the surface of their craft’s domain is the day job. All those years of music education to be a secretary… and have a bed to sleep in, a pot to piss in, and maybe with enough hard work, you’ll manage to break through, but at least you won’t be sleeping on the street somewhere dreaming about the would have could haves.
Some dreams die easily. I’m not going to be a famous dancer, doctor or a National Geographic investigative journalist which were dreams that lit up like a firefly and burned out fast. But I do have a particular set of skills that have grown into an ability from a teeny tiny little mustard seed and that ability continues to carry the root of who I am and what I have to offer. That’s where this song comes from.
Flaming needles prick the darkness, hosed down halls that house the heartless, two pills in a paper cup, liquid soul, drink it up.
The Institution describes the cognitive dissonance I feel in my day job. It doesn’t even matter what the day job, so it’s not tied to my current organization of employment. I know I’m not the only one….