Melbourne I love you but we're all a bit alien.

Thinking about the possibility of the existence of extra-terrestrials and the likelihood that man is yet to walk on the moon, I light a cigarette and sit in my underwear, feeling a little Eadie Sedgewickesque. Creativity is not something you can force any more than I can force an alien to walk through my bedroom door. Creativity now feels a bit alien to me; it has been awhile old friend. For, in the city of hopes and dreams, of music and indivituality, some days the need to survive tends to over-ride the need to express; and a tension in my limbs starts to quake. There is a distinct realisation that old friends don't understand, that a post-code no longer determines your identity and comfort; and that your ideas need to be handled with confidence and charisma, lest you fall to the bottom of the pile. It all seems a little daunting really. If aliens are indeed real, then on the grand scale, worrying about whether people will like a lyric of mine seems a little, well selfish. But. Are we all not essentially selfish beings? We want to be seen; wearing the right clothes, the right make-up, watching the right gigs, sipping coffee at Minor Place, riding fixies, being more alternative than another, not actually listening to, or making conversation based on your self image being far more superior than what you think of mine. If aliens are real, or even if they are not; what is the point? What is the point in competing, to be more creative, better looking, more "thrown together" and more popular. We on the North side are all in this pickled ratio of money:creativity. Something we cannot avoid. Something that we all share. As I suck the end of this cigarette, I think to myself that there are bigger things out there; I think to myself that I am  going to see the best in you, if you see the best in me.