You come home to someone who had waited. You guys aren’t close now. You’re strangers.
You go for a walk outside. It’s good to be home, but you can’t shake the discomfort. The two of you will have to start over—and you know you’re not up to the challenge. All you want is the other person’s pity. The bitter tears.
So you put your buds on and play Bowie’s “Heroes”; and you would like to be like the duo in that song, dying to get over—to feel good, rise above—do something, be something. Escape forever. But that’s just a dream. You can’t afford it. After all, “Heroes” is just a song. Bowie himself kicks and screams at it, enraged at the fantasy that means so much but stays a fantasy.
Bowie is trapped and so are you. But you’re worse, my friend. You don’t even ask for that which you can’t have. You cling to the shell of what once was. And you admit it. You want the emptiness. It’s easy to want it.
At least it would be a feeling.