Going out in cars to find
Whatever drives the artists mad
Leaving all we had and
Leaving all we had to give behind
Leaving brushstrokes on a canvas
With a paint that never dries
Hoping only that the better parts
Will flash before our eyes before we're
Off again
On a whim
Going out in cars at night
To have a highway to ourselves
No we haven't got a map
We're only going somewhere else
And all the things we've yet to see
Become the things we left behind
It's worth it just to see that blur
We'd rather travel than arrive
No we haven't got a map
And no we haven't got a plan
But we're content to have our friends
and some vague picture of the end
That may well tear us all to shreds
And though we really were content
We found we felt far more than that
Going out in cars with paint, if
there's no way we'll take the one that we invent
we never seemed that far away
From what was falling into place
Or from a fireplace and beds
where we could rest our noisy heads before we're
Off again
On a whim
Leaving all we had
The goodbyes were sad
Had we been standing still instead
Had we been hiding from the rain
Had we been lying in
What passes for a home when we're afraid
Could we have been content?
With having years and years instead
And trying not to hear the
restless, reckless parts inside our heads
Perhaps not yet
Imagine when the noise is dim
We open up the curtains just to
find an unexpected and unwelcome
lack of anything behind them.
Perhaps not yet
But I imagine on my deathbed
I'd confess:
I never felt the change
And so we're
Off again
On a whim
And though it's only my best guess
I think what drove them mad was this:
How do you find yourself if you're always somewhere else?
Feb 15, 2013
Feb 15, 2013 at 6:12 PM UTC
Going out in cars to find
Whatever drives the artists mad
Leaving all we had and
Leaving all we had to give behind
Leaving brushstrokes on a canvas
With a paint that never dries
Hoping only that the better parts
Will flash before our eyes before we're
Off again
On a whim
Going out in cars at night
To have a highway to ourselves
No we haven't got a map
We're only going somewhere else
And all the things we've yet to see
Become the things we left behind
It's worth it just to see that blur
We'd rather travel than arrive
No we haven't got a map
And no we haven't got a plan
But we're content to have our friends
and some vague picture of the end
That may well tear us all to shreds
And though we really were content
We found we felt far more than that
Going out in cars with paint, if
there's no way we'll take the one that we invent
we never seemed that far away
From what was falling into place
Or from a fireplace and beds
where we could rest our noisy heads before we're
Off again
On a whim
Leaving all we had
The goodbyes were sad
Had we been standing still instead
Had we been hiding from the rain
Had we been lying in
What passes for a home when we're afraid
Could we have been content?
With having years and years instead
And trying not to hear the
restless, reckless parts inside our heads
Perhaps not yet
Imagine when the noise is dim
We open up the curtains just to
find an unexpected and unwelcome
lack of anything behind them.
Perhaps not yet
But I imagine on my deathbed
I'd confess:
I never felt the change
And so we're
Off again
On a whim
And though it's only my best guess
I think what drove them mad was this:
How do you find yourself if you're always somewhere else?
These are some new lyrics that finally came together today after being only a scattered, but related assortment of lines scribbled in my journal. I'd say it may be my favorite thing I've written yet. Maybe.
