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STD 02
Writing - It's a Disease - Writing - It's a Disease - Writing - It's a Disease
ÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄ
StrictlyúúúúúúúúúúúúúúúúúúúúúúúúúúúúúúúúúúúúúúúúúúúúúúúúúúúúúúBy James Hetfield
úúúúúúúúúTextúúúúúúúúúúúúúúúúúúúúúúúúú"The Solitary Song"úúúúúúúúúúúúúúúúúúúúú
úúúúúúúúúúúúúúDistributionúúIssue Twoúúúúúúúúúúúúúúúúúúúúúúúúúúúúúúúúúúúúúúúúúú
ÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄ
Writing - It's a Disease - Writing - It's a Disease - Writing - It's a Disease
He woke up suddenly, sweat pouring down his face. His dreams of
flying men, angels, dragons, knights, were all washed away in an instant.
All around him, silence, quiet, calm, solitude. But the song was still
pounding away in his head.
You just stood there screaming
Fearing no one was listening to you
His mind was racing. He couldn't get the song out of his thoughts.
It possessed him in every way. He heard the lyrics and felt the pounding
within his mind. And knew what he had to do.
Jumping in old cut-off jeans and throwing on an old T-shirt, with in
big letters Metallica on the front, and a picture of two yellow skulls
intertwined by yellow bandages, he began to head out the door of his house.
The aging, rotting, decrepit house he glanced at on his way down the street
reminded him of his childhood, when he used to run home from school and
scream and cry in anger and frustration because of mean boys and meaner
girls.
They say the empty can rattles the most
The sound of your own voice must soothe you
He soon found himself crossing the large soccer fields of his old
junior high school. The vague calmness of the summer night relaxed him, and
he breathed in the humid air. The air! Something so easily taken for
granted. Something that at the moment smelled of life itself, of vitality,
of wet trees and wet leaves.
He followed dark, narrow paths to continue on to his destination.
They reminded him of the last time he went on this crusade. They reminded
him of all the tears that rolled down his face when coming home. They didn't
just feel like tears, more of blood. Blood rolling down from the corners of
his eyes, having that warm and sweaty taste on the tip of his lips.
Hearing only what you want to hear
And knowing only what you've heard
A wave of disgust overcame him. He couldn't believe he was actually
going through with all this. Looking - 3am. 3am and he's out on the streets
of the city, going somewhere he is not expected. But... this repulsion
quickly subsided.
You You're smothered in tragedy
You're out to save the world
He remembered the conversations the night before. The night before
that. The previous night. Every night. Almost every night. Many a night,
at least. The late nights. The early nights. The mail. The phone. In
person. In front of his house. At restaurants. Car trips. No, he was
doing the right thing. He was sure this time.
You insist that the weight of the world
Should be on your shoulders
The quarter around his neck seemed to be almost burning his chest, it
was so warm. When he noticed the sensation, he quickly broke the string that
kept the quarter around his neck, and placed it in his pocket. He had found
this quarter, which had a large hole soldered through it, during another day
and another time. But this was not that time, he kept telling himself, and
this certainly was not that day.
There's much more to life than what you see
My friend of misery
He was getting close. He breathed in heavy the fairly clean air of
Glenview, hoping this would help to renew his fanatic desire. And the cool
wind quenched his flame, because it reminded him of a night, in the cold, by
the park, by the sand, on the swings...
You still stood there screaming
No one caring about these words you tell
The swings. Staring, watching, following. Frustration, wonder,
amazement. Confusion? The cold seemed to repress even more the flame in his
heart, a flame that was aching to be set free. But when repressed, the flame
moved to his mind also, making his desire one that - that - he had to answer
to.
My friend before your voice is gone
One man's fun is another's hell
He saw her large home. The home that, like the rest on her block,
stood high into the heavens. Just like her. Looking - 4:30am. In a few
hours, she would be on her way into her daily routine, making the important
decisions in life (what to wear, how to do her hair today, etc.). He smiled
at the idea of someone planning their wardrobe, instead of just grabbing the
first thing in sight like he always did.
These times are sent to try men's souls
But something's wrong with all you see
He walked in back of the house, to sit next to the pond that was
almost directly behind it. Geese were just waking up, it seemed, and they
were flying over the water, next to the water, a few on the water. He
wondered if she would see him back there. He wondered what she would think
if she say him back there. Would she be scared? No, he doubted if she would
be scared. Would she be afraid? Perhaps. But the fear and the tension he
knew drove him (and her) crazy, both in good ways and bad ways. It was all
part of the big game. The big game that seemed it may never have an ending,
until now. For there he was, waiting, patiently, and was ready. He
remembered the endless nights, where he would be woken by a voice, a voice
outside of his house, beckoning him to come outside, to experience her... a
voice, tender and afraid, which had not been otherwise heard by anyone for
years. She was silent, awkward, but wonderful nonetheless. He would come
out, to be with her, to talk with her, to wonder with her, but every time she
drove away, away from his fears, his insecurities, his confusions.
You You'll take it on all yourself
Remember, misery loves company
He stared out at the pond, feeling the sunlight creep over the
horizon. He felt something burning away at the back of his head. He turned
around, and saw in the upstairs window. The curtains had been pushed aside,
and there she was, staring right down upon him. They did not motion to each
other at all, just stared. Looked. For one brief moment, the song left his
mind and he only enjoyed watching the girl who was watching him.
A wave of warmth flooded his entire body. He was free, alive. He
stood up, and continued to stare at the girl, wondering why this had not
happened earlier, why he was not where he is now. He loved her, he knew it.
He knew it and understood it more than he had ever before. He felt her pain,
her fears, her worries. He had all of this inside of himself. She closed
the curtains, and soon was at the back door, standing there in a robe and
pajamas that she wore to bed every night. And she had silly slippers with
monkeys on them. Right at that moment, he was shocked to see what he now
saw. Her entire body, her entire female form, was of a little girl. A girl
he knew well, a girl he desired, but was still a little girl. He turned away
in fright; he could not look at her ever again. He loved her - he loved her
as a brother loves a sister; as an incestuous brother loves a sister. The
mere thought of touching her made his entire body burn with lust - and write
in agony. His eyes contacted her once more, and the look of her glance sent
needles through his eyes, they pierced through his eyes and into his mind, a
mind blackened by earthly sins and moral corruption.
You just stood there screaming
My friend of misery
And with this, with pins and with needles, with pains and with
nausea, with love and with disgust, he ran off as quickly as his legs could
take him, as long as his lungs would allow, as far as his endurance could
stand. And right when he was far enough away that he could see again, far
enough away that he could hear again, there was a solitary song going
through his aching mind, a song that has pounded in him since the day he was
born.
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[úúúúúúúúúúúúúúúúúThe Solitary Songúúúúúúúúúúúúúúúúúúúúúúúúúúúúúúúúúúúúúúú]
[úúúúúúúúúúúúúúúúúúúúúúúúúúúúúúúBy James Hetfieldúúúúúúúúúúúúúúúúúúúúúúúúú]
[úúúúúúúúúúúúúúúúúúúúúúúúúúúúúúúúúúúúúúúúúúúúúúúúú04/14/95úúúúúúúúúúúúúúúú]
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