So imagine my surprise when, watching Tim Minchin on Netflix earlier with several other housemates, I am listening to a song - and as so often happens with songs, it mentally poleaxes me.
I daresay aforementioned housemates will be reading this and going: I didn't notice any poleaxing. (They might even get in a Polack joke.)
Well, that's because it was mental, you see. And if dealing with anxiety has taught me anything, it is how to prevent mental turmoil from seeking physical output. Well. Anxiety and other stuff.
The song is called Not Perfect. This isn't the specific performance in question, and the lyrics can be slightly altered depending on performance, obviously - but the lyrics that really hit me, like hit me in a shots fired shots fired kind of fashion, are below.
This is my brain, I live in itIt's made of love, and bad song lyricsIt's tucked away behind my eyesWhere all my fucked up thoughts can hideBecause god forbid I hurt somebodyAnd the weirdest thing about a mindIs that every answer that you findIs the basis of a brand new clicheThis is my brain, and it's fineIt's where I spend the vast majority of my timeIt's not perfectBut it's mineIt's not perfectBut it's mine
And right now, just thinking about those words kind of has me in bits. Wasn't quite expecting that little ambush.
My love for songs that properly and adequately encapsulate a feeling, concept or situation is tickled by this, for the perhaps obvious reason that it's a rather succinct way to describe how I see my mental state - and hell, probably how most people would...maybe.
Perhaps it's a state of acceptance I need to find with myself. With the cogs and gears inside my skull that guide the big complex bipedal vehicle that I call Me.
It's not perfect.
But it's mine.
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