Red: Breathe Into Me

And this is how it feels when I ignore the words you spoke to me
And this is where I lose myself when I keep running away from you
And this is who I am when, when I don't know myself anymore
And this is what I choose when it's all left up to me

Breathe your life into me
I can feel you
I'm falling, falling faster
Breathe your life into me
I still need you
I'm falling, falling
Breathe into me
Breathe into me

And this is how it looks when I am standing on the edge
And this is how I break apart when I finally hit the ground
And this is how it hurts when I pretend I don't feel any pain
And this is how I disappear when I throw myself away

It really should be easier to take a steady picture.

Why do we hold up our heroes only to watch them fall again and a again with tears running down our chins?
We continue to grasp for someone to hold onto and we only succeed in pulling them down with us.

This kind of thinking (could do us in)

There must be something special about people who like blue ink. Are we blue in our moods too? Are we more philosophical? Educated? Intuitive? Or are we merely in denial of our human tendency towards black ink? And about those people who use gel pens, and pens of different colors. What about those multicolored pens that have receded to the dusty racks in souvenir shops? I have pity, also, for the forgotten pencil. It really does stick around longer in the ending. It can be erased at will; conformed to the changing mind of the artist. Oh, and paintbrushes, for those painters. But I will continue to ignore the fact that painters exist. They can do what I can not-to draw an emotion and a feeling and a world and convey it perfectly-or imperfectly-on a flat surface. I bow to you, dear artists of the colors and shapes. I am infidel to you, as one who can only form the same letters and words and sentences over and over again. I work in vain. This could do me in.