No one is late. No one is coming. We invented the appointment. A tree. Two chairs. An empty road. And an animal that refuses to stop breathing. We invented Godot To give the hours a name. We invented heaven To justify the game. We invented meaning, We invented why. Anything to keep us From asking how to die. But underneath the story, Underneath the prayer, The animal keeps breathing. And no one... No one is there. A billion years of hunger, A billion years of need. A little piece of matter Discovered how to breed. No purpose in the process, No author of the plan. Just chemistry repeating Until it called itself a man. Then something went peculiar, The creature learned to know That every road it travelled Was a road it couldn't own. It saw its own extinction Reflected in the glass, And built a thousand reasons To pretend that it would last. We named the stars. We named the pain. We made up gods To entertain The frightened little animal That never asked to be A conscious piece of matter Terrified of being free. We invented Godot To give the hours a name. We invented heaven To justify the game. We invented meaning, We invented why. We dressed the will to carry on In stories that survive. And underneath the language, Underneath the prayer, The animal keeps breathing. And no one... No one is there. We call it love and destiny, We call it something grand. Two bodies seeking comfort, Two strangers holding hands. We build another generation To continue what began. Another little consciousness Condemned to question man. We teach it hope and purpose, We teach it wrong and right. We teach it how to decorate The terror of the night. Then music, art and poetry, Philosophy and faith, Become elaborate arrangements For postponing thoughts of death. A masterpiece. A sacred vow. A reason to continue now. But ask the flesh What all this means... It doesn't answer. It just breeds. We invented Godot To give the hours a name. We invented meaning To dignify the game. We invented purpose, We invented fate. We even made a virtue Of our willingness to wait. But underneath the glory, Underneath the prayer, The animal keeps breathing. And no one... No one is there. And then... One day, the animal understands. There is no meaning to discover. No meaning to invent. Because meaning itself was the invention. A useful fiction. A biological sedative administered by a brain that cannot persuade its body to surrender. Religion? Survival. Philosophy? Survival. Love? Survival. Art? Survival. And nihilism? Oh, yes... Even nihilism. The organism examining its own machinery. And calling the examination a revelation. How wonderfully absurd. I know the trick. I see the stage. I know the script. I know the cage. I know the actor And the play. I know why no one walks away. The body's older than the mind, Its ancient orders still remain. No argument can stop the heart From doing what it does again. And here I sit beneath a tree, Composing one more melody. Another trick to fill the space Between the cradle and the grave. No higher truth. No sacred art. Just blood circulating Through a temporary heart. WE INVENTED GODOT! WE INVENTED WHY! WE INVENTED REASONS THAT COULD NEVER DIE! WE INVENTED BEAUTY! WE INVENTED FATE! WE INVENTED SOMETHING WORTH THE FUCKING WAIT! But no one's coming! No one's late! There never was A promised date! No grand conclusion! No final show! No revelation At the end of the road! Just flesh! Just time! Just one more breath Pretending to be mine! GODOT! GODOT! WE INVENTED GODOT! Tomorrow... I'll probably get up. Eat something. Look through the window. Perhaps write another song. Not because it matters. Not because I've found a reason to continue. But because the body has not finished being alive. And the mind... The mind needs something to do while the body takes its time. So... What shall we do while we wait? I don't know. We could write another song. Of course we could.
