And a crowd of young boys theyre fooling around in the corner
Drunk and dressed in their best brown baggies & their platform soles
They dont give a damn about any trumpet playing band
It aint what they call rock and roll
And the sultans played creole
It is very scary to let go. Let go of something you didn't realise to be an extrinsic part of your life. But some wiseguy (wise-ass?) said: "If you love something, then let it be." ... Or something like that. Maybe I am just plain cynical. Maybe I am not positive enough. Maybe I am too pragmatic. But whatever the case, I belive that , the solution lies in the above statement.
Remember the old man and the butterfly's cocoon? Everyone has their own cocoon. Some break out. Some are reluctant. Some are way too vigorous. Some... just die in their cocoons. Never make it out. But each one who makes it out, albiet at different level of enthusiasm, has its own unique beauty. A vivid mesmerising pattern of colours and hues. Some flit around together. Some go in search for nectar all alone. Some just go on to a whole new forest. This isn't something to be sad about or overtly happy about. Its just something that happens.
And there is the account of the hanging of three men, and a scuba diver, and a suicide. There are stories of coincidence and chance, and intersections and strange things told, and which is which and who only knows? And we generally say, "Well, if that was in a movie, I wouldn't believe it." Someone's so-and-so met someone else's so-and-so and so on. And it is in the humble opinion of this narrator that strange things happen all the time. And so it goes, and so it goes. And the book says, "We may be through with the past, but the past ain't through with us."
These things happen all the time. Its just big when they happen to you or around you.
The tighter you close your fist, the faster the sand slips out.
And then the man he steps right up to the microphone
And says at last just as the time bell rings
thank you goodnight now its time to go home
And he makes it fast with one more thing
we were the sultans of swing