My hands still ache – I’m convinced it’s my atoms splitting No one asked me how I got addicted – They said the focus was on quitting
But I’m here in the present So I must have a had a past It’s too bad “Where’d you come from” Is a question never asked.
I went through hell to get here So it should matter where I’m from I tell them “it should matter what I’ve seen… It should matter what I’ve done.” He then responded like a father and began his sentence, “Son… It’s the shock, not the trauma, that makes the body the numb.” He said, “The thing you search is silence.” “And yet you let your monsters drum.”
You start to figure things out. You know -- When you’re locked up all that time. But you learn not from what you’re taught, Instead, you learn from what you find. And I found mine in the written word, I found it in a rhyme.
Numbers always helped me think, so I looked for something to count And as I pondered that man’s words, the room’s only light went out. So I counted the only thing that I could feel aside from air, And his seven words made sense, as I counted the one thing That in the dark was always there. I’m my own favorite number, so I began counting, “One…” But this time I didn’t count to two. And the monsters didn’t drum.
For the first time in my life, I didn’t rely on someone else For the first time, in the dark, I counted on myself. I then knew why “Where’d you come from” was never asked -- Both they and I lived in the present; we couldn’t act upon the past. It doesn’t matter where you came from, or even why you’re here. For your past dictates your penance, but the present is your frontier.