The Story About A SongMature

The idea of this exercise is to write whatever you're inspired to write by the current song in your playlist.

When You're Strange:

I was walking through a desert... no, no I was in the middle of a crowded room. Do you know the feeling when you look at the faces around and they all seem like plastic dolls? Like you are the only living and breathing being walking through a throng of mindless automotons? I could easily be called an elitist prick, a proud bastard, Mr High and Mighty. Maybe it is because I am. The difference? Magic. That little spark within my heart that makes the world beautiful, but when it burns you really see...

Splendid Isolation:

You see that everybody else is simply hollow. Maybe not all but enough, enough to make me run, run into the mystical world within my mind. A world where I can dance and play in splendid isolation. When you're strong you no longer need anyone else to keep alive, to keep you interested, to make your life worth living. All you need is yourself. Yet, what of loneliness I hear you ask. We are social creatures are we not? It is a feeling just like any other...

Did It Again

But that is a lie trapped within my life. I see her standing there through the throng of people. A creature of pure sensuality. Look at her, she owns everyone around her. Does she own me? The laugh, they flirt, all the fools, just hoping for a single dance, for a single kiss, a single caress, a single fuck, a single life together. They say that a man accomplishes most in his life whilst in search of a woman. Showing off by making the world a better or more dangerous place.

Johny Strikes Up A Band

So just like every other idiot I had a great idea. Strike up a band. A guitar, a microphone, a stage. Show em all that I really don't like them, then they're at my knees. Now, as I walk through this crowd of losers, surrounded by sycophants and yet all alone. I am someone whom she will notice.

By Myself

Just another phony play. I step onto the stage and the play runs its course. The others have no chance, they are just as fake as I am. I scream from the inside because I know that I am the same plastic doll as everyone else. Now she's dancing with me, swirling and writhing against my erect body, but it is not me she is dancing with, it just the shell I am putting forward. I am playing her just as she is playing me. A vicious cycle and we both know it, we are both hurting ourself. This is a world where masochism is the kind and the law. 

The End

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