Anis Mojgani - For Those Who Can Still Ride In An Airplane For The First Time (aka Quentin) lyrics

I'm thirty years old and I'm trying to figure out most days what being a man means. I don't drink, fight, or love, but these days, I find myself wanting to do all three. And I don't really have a favorite color anymore, but I did when I was a kid, and back then, that color was blue. And back then, I wanted to be an astronaut, I wanted to be an architect, an artist, a secret agent, a ranger for the World Wildlife Fund, and a hobo. And when I was six years old, I used to always throw my clothes into my blue and yellow, plastic and vinyl, Hot Wheels car carrying suitcase and run away to beneath the dining room table. I've made out with more girls than I wish I've had and not nearly as many as I'd like to. I've fallen in love 4 or 5 times so I doubt I'm going to try that much more often. And I spend most days making pictures or thinking about making pictures, or masturbating or thinking about masturbating, and I dream too much and I don't write enough, and I'm trying to find God everywhere. I'm trying to figure this thing he made called a man. And the television, it tells me that that's bare-knuckled bombing, and if I drove a tank or was a movie star, my penis would be huge! And that's what I want because that's what being a man means, or at least that's what they keep telling me. My pops, he takes care of us. He puts the garbage out twice a week. He drives forty-five minutes just to water flowers. I'm sitting on the bus when a seven year-old boy carrying a book of Robin Hood, he sits down next to me and asks me my name. "Anis." "That's a nice name." "Thank you, what's yours?" "Quentin." "Anis, do you want to read with me?" So tell me what my fists keep writing. My fingers, they open up like gates when I write and the wind is swinging in the wake. I lift bridges with poems and forests grow in my mother's eyes. I'm looking for God, Quentin. While this world tries to forget you for trying. For Quentin, this world hates your eyes; for they are small and pure. And Quentin, this world hates your fingers; little like the stems of flowers for not being able to pick up the things you have left behind, simply because you are still learning to do so. I don't drink, fight, or f** but these days, Quentin, it's only two out of those three I don't do. And I've fallen in love six, seven, eight, nine, ten times, Quentin; so I don't want to, want to, but I still do. And I want to find God in the morning, and in the tired hands of dusk. At the mouth of the river and down by it's feet. But instead, I drive sixty through residential streets, praying to hit a child, so that they may stay forever an angel, and stay forever full of night, and light, and crayons, and simple outstretched limbs trying to pick up way too much way too fast, forgetting what it means to be a person. In a world where egos are measured with tabloids, where automobiles double for morals, where beliefs are like naps, and you leave them behind when somebody touches you. And in a place where oil always takes precedence over life, I find myself sitting on a bus, watching this small boy float down like fresh water, carrying a book I used to, asking if I want to see what he sees if only for a little while, and I do. And then asks if I want to give to him what I see if only for a little while, and I read to him. Then says to me he's going to show me the world. And starts reading the sentences himself, his hands dancing back and forth, across the pages, stumbling over words, skipping over lines, because his fingers are moving faster than what they're showing his eyes and I wanna tell him, "Slow dooooown, Quentin." "Slow down, Quentin." You don't have to touch and go. You can see it all if your finger whispers on one word. Slow down, and hold what you see just a little while longer. For in a world of fast faces, I'm looking for God everywhere, trying to figure out a little better this little thing he made called a man.