To be Anything by Nost Lyrics
This is for all the dry brushes, and songs we never wrote
Perspective never did sit well in the back of the throat
There are over six billion souls on the Earth, half awake and half in slumber. It's hard to think about my own ever fitting in that number. Why? Because I'm bigger. A monster that lives in my own head. Narrating every instant, will it exist after I'm dead? The monologue of senses and desires like looping feedback. So many impulses at once that it creates a white washed soundtrack. The hum behind the dissonance is purring in contentment. A selfishness consuming, I wish I never met him. It's the giant cut of knowing that within you is a greatness that whenever put to paper, just becomes a solid grey mess. The feeling of writing down three pages off songs and knowing full well that only one couplet belongs. He is inside all of us. Inside the trophies and the memories of scoring on the soccer field for your mom and dad to see, and praise and raise their expectations. But the next time your foot meets the ball, you can know no patience. It's in your foot, it's in your hands, it's in your ears and it demands to be translated from the knowledge you have skill and heart to something so deftly known as art. So what if you can't release true expression? It consumes you, eats you, it demands public confession. Because this is you, on this tape, in those book. If we wanted to get closer, you could just hold it up and say, "look". The pages may be creased, but they're held together relief. This is me, my heart my soul, my pen has killed this beast
Perspective never did sit well in the back of the throat
There are over six billion souls on the Earth, half awake and half in slumber. It's hard to think about my own ever fitting in that number. Why? Because I'm bigger. A monster that lives in my own head. Narrating every instant, will it exist after I'm dead? The monologue of senses and desires like looping feedback. So many impulses at once that it creates a white washed soundtrack. The hum behind the dissonance is purring in contentment. A selfishness consuming, I wish I never met him. It's the giant cut of knowing that within you is a greatness that whenever put to paper, just becomes a solid grey mess. The feeling of writing down three pages off songs and knowing full well that only one couplet belongs. He is inside all of us. Inside the trophies and the memories of scoring on the soccer field for your mom and dad to see, and praise and raise their expectations. But the next time your foot meets the ball, you can know no patience. It's in your foot, it's in your hands, it's in your ears and it demands to be translated from the knowledge you have skill and heart to something so deftly known as art. So what if you can't release true expression? It consumes you, eats you, it demands public confession. Because this is you, on this tape, in those book. If we wanted to get closer, you could just hold it up and say, "look". The pages may be creased, but they're held together relief. This is me, my heart my soul, my pen has killed this beast