I tried to have a good life...

(I brought you a song, check it out here, start before reading: http://www.melodycenta.com/flash_player/flash_black.php?type=1&id=7296 in italics, fragments of the lyrics can be read. Got some inspiration by some lines of it and the blues guitar; enjoy!)

I've tried it I swear. Fought back decay with my fear-driven actions. I've had enough.
I'm only saying that it won't work like this anymore. Quicksand it is, this decay pulls me faster and the grip tightens as I try to fight back.

I tried to have a good life...

But now I know that I was wrong.

Wondering through the rainy city that loves me, the one I hate back. Rain soaks my jacket. The cold wind blows right through me. I'm cold down to my bones. The faceless crowd flows on. I like to think I'm different; but I'm just one in a thousand. I look at the troubled faces and believe that I'm not like them. Then I realize I am. I realize the other thousands feel exactly the same. That they are special. That God has secret and unique plans with them. They all believe their lives will eventually turn upside down. They are in God's favor. They have to be in God's favor. No one else: the dull people of the street are just assisting to the grand plan, the plan where they play the main role. The messiah, the righteous and kind friend of God himself. They all dream the same role. To be unique. To be the only one.

Don't know the reason why I'm here...

What is better? To dream about glorious march towards eternal fame and righteousness but not do anything; or to live the good life but not dream anything special? Or with other words: to be a lazy dreamer or a busy, realistic person? Anyways, where does the dreamer go? The dreamer is a witch. Differs from others. Cannot share the dream so expelled from society. Often ran down and laughed at. Tortured. Eventually, slained.

A witch is hanging from a tree

Let the witch hang! 

I stoop as drops of rain dribble down my neck. Shivering, I arrive at the seaside. Angry waves rumble as they bounce off the rocks of the coast again and again. Myriads of tiny stones cover the sand as I tumble through the beach. I'm a candle in the deep night, standing in the throat of the storm. The dreams I have and the happiness left, all united in a small candlelight now. Mighty waves come and go, and I feel fragile. No more dreams. I'm not God's favorite Peter anymore. The wrath of nature thus life is roaring all around me. Dreams cannot stay hidden now. Dreams never live long, the same way the candlelight dies in the storm in a second. 

Crouching and still shivering, I fınd some dry paper. A few sticks of wood. I build a little tent out of it. The candle dwells in the middle. Fire spreads and flames born in the storm. Waves rumble in anger. But the fire gives warmth now. Orange sparks jump around me. I'm not cold anymore...

I tried to have a good life...

But now I know I am right.