This right here is why Pink Floyd is and always will be my favorite band of all time. Not this particular song, per se, but rather the remarkable candor and honesty which are so adeptly set to melodies that are nothing short of perfect for carrying their intended messages.
Being a manic-depressive, I can completely relate to what ol' Roger was going through, even if I have not shared his amazing experiences. The music moves me and then the lyrics speak to me. Sometimes they don't say the nicest things but still I am compelled – sometimes by cynical necessity, sometimes as a side-effect of manic catharsis – to listen. And to absorb. And think. And, paradoxically, to heal.
But it was only fantasy.
The wall was too high, as you can see.
No matter how he tried, he could not break free.
And the worms ate into his brain.
Yeah, no kidding. As always, Rog, you display here an incredible mastery of words. I can feel these worms; they've always been there, eating and wriggling and digging. They are perpetually telling me I'm shit and that's why they eat me. But in an incredibly ironic manner, your lyrics tell me the worms are not real. By so openly dissecting your pain and laying it bare before me, you help me understand my own. You enable me to attempt the same methods of self-analysis. And just as the meth addict must suffer great tribulation before being clean again, so must I endure a similar cleansing with all the requisite penance. And when my Wall is torn down, I intend to still be standing there… naked but complete, shivering but strong.
And hopefully, someone will still be around to hand me a coat.