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"Remember when you were young, you shone like the sun Shine on you crazy diamond Now there’s a look in your eyes, like black holes in the sky Shine on you crazy diamond You were caught in the crossfire of childhood and stardom, blown on the steel breeze Come on you target for far away laughter, come on you stranger, you legend, you martyr, and shine! You reached for the secret too soon, you cried for the moon Shine on you crazy diamond Threatened by shadows at night, and exposed in the light Shine on you crazy diamond Well you wore out your welcome with random precision Rode on the steel breeze Come on you raver, you seer of visions, come on you painter, you piper, you prisoner, and shine!" - Pink Floyd "Shine On You Crazy Diamond (pt 1-5)" ------------------ 2: Black Holes It’s 4 AM, and I wake up thinking about John. He was so young when he joined the Chili Peppers. An eighteen-year-old boy, but not just any kid. He had to be something special if we were going to let him play guitar for us. After Hillel, I didn’t think we’d ever find anyone else. I really didn’t want the band to continue. But Anthony did. And he’s my best friend. I knew he wasn’t done creating music, and I wanted to be there as he unfolded. It was tough though, sitting through those auditions, watching careless hopefuls take the stage. They were trying so hard to impress us, but it was obvious that they didn’t give a sh** about music. They just wanted to be famous, travel the world, get laid, all that they felt was entailed in the rock-and-roll lifestyle. John pretty much stumbled to our attention. His motives were so completely opposite our applicants that we didn’t even consider him right off. He just loved playing guitar. And he sounded so much like Hillel that it was like our friend was back from the dead... Holy sh**! Why didn’t I think about that before? It probably WAS Hillel playing, through John! Over time though, he developed his own style. You could still hear Hillel in his music, but John was starting to shine. I roll over in bed and bury my head beneath the pillow. Every time I think of John now, I don’t see that young, shining virtuoso in my mind. Maybe at first I do, but I can’t forget what he is now. I visit him sometimes, any time I build up the courage to face him. I’m over his apartment less and less often now. Told myself I’d see him as much as I could, but I just can’t keep this up, watching him decay. Watching him puff away on a damn cigarette, which he clutches with bony, trembling fingers. But that’s not the scariest part. Not the deepening track marks on his arms. Not how he makes Kate Moss look fat. Not that his teeth are falling out and litter the floor beside his needles. Not the mix of foul stenches that permeate his apartment. What frightens me the most are his eyes, once so vibrant and... full of everything! Full of life and wonder and amusement. Now they’re like black holes, like he’s a shell of a man and his spirit has departed. He learned too much too fast, snatched out of his youth for a "greater purpose". At least that’s what we led him to believe. I try to swallow the lump in my throat, but I can’t. "What have we done?" I whisper to myself, knowing full well that I am alone, as a tear trickles down my cheek. I reach a hand beneath the pillow to wipe it away. A futile gesture. More are swiftly following, and I can’t keep them ALL at bay. But it wasn’t just the fame. I know that. Part of his condition is a result of learning too fast of the spiritual realm. I should have been there to guide him. But really, I never spoke much to him about it. When it suited me, we’d talk. Otherwise, we just went along our way. If I had been there with him more, maybe it wouldn’t have all overwhelmed him. The secrets of the night snatched him away, and he could no longer live his daytime drama. His waking life no longer felt real to him. People laugh about him now, even some who claim they are fans. They say he went crazy. I’ve even heard rumours that he’s locked up in a psych ward somewhere. When people don’t know the answers, they make up sh**. They act like John is a character in some stupid novel. And if they fail to see him as real, how is John expected to view himself that way? He never leaves his apartment now, hasn’t been out at all in over a month. He wouldn’t be eating if I didn’t bring him those canned vitamin drinks. His mortal frame wastes away as he sits on his couch. He doesn’t even paint or play his guitar anymore. But he does see visions; I am sure of that. All I can think of now are those eyes. I roll onto my back, toss my pillow to the floor, and stare up at the ceiling. Those desolate eyes. If it weren’t for his pulse, I would swear that he were dead. Sometimes I sit opposite him, and brave to look within. But I find nothing. Just black holes for eyes. His spirit is not inside. It has long departed. GONE. But where... F***! Why didn’t I think of it before? |