Sailing to Nowhere

Whether it's a misquote or not, the saying Music has the charm to soothe the savage beast is most accurate and relative to my life. Music, in its infinite wisdom and possibilities and mystery best represents the things that I feel, way better than my shitty mortal words could ever do. Music transcends the mortal realm and enters that of the gods. Though the bodies that make it are human, the final product does not truly possess the qualities that man does. Because man cheats and fucks around and then lies to your face about it. Music may cheat and fuck around but in the end will tell you, 'yeah I did it'. Music is not bound by morals or by time. By creating Music, and I mean good Music, real shit, man can emulate the gods, and in some cases, get damn near to becoming immortal. Music in its essence is an approximation of the human condition, it reaches every point of being a human and being alive or dead for that matter. For as much as Music is life, it is also death, as it is all knowing, all seeing, so it must know death. And because of this, music knows what we all need, and what we don't. It comforts us, it enrages us, it makes us remember, helps us forget. And yet somehow, despite its power and complexity, Music is astoundingly simple; perhaps not in the composition of notes and harmonies and all that, but the idea of Music itself, is so simple and pure. Music is the lock and music is the key. Whether it does it for you or not, Music soothes the savage beast in me, and for that, I am terribly grateful.

Writing from the other side, I can say that I was never really happy. I just pretended to be happy to be left alone. Nobody worries about you when there is a Cheshire cat grin slapped on that otherwise sullen kisser. A smile like that means everything besides it can be forgotten. Why couldn't I own a real smile? How did I let myself just flicker out and die in this manner? I had nothing to show for myself, after twenty years of people loving me and nurturing me, of giving me everything I wanted. I hate myself for the ease of my life. I hate myself for everything. I hate myself with all I have.

I've had the whole world in the palm of my hands, perfectly indexed and analyzed, all figured out. and then I blinked, woke up, and it was just like a dream being lost from recognition with every little second. I've come so close to understanding everything, and then it turns and I know nothing. I am stuck in the perpetual cycle of bringing myself to the verge of enlightenment, then losing everything the moment before I reach it. And after every attempt, i have to pick up the pieces, knowing that they were so close to being whole, and start right back at the beginning. It is then in the beginning that i am raw and unadulterated, and the utter chaos of my psyche fills everything, it is clay. Then slowly I put things into place, i mold it into a state of refinement, of culture, and it takes a definite shape. I fine tune it and work out the kinks- thus it becomes a fragile and delicate, almost complete. This is also the point at which I become clumsy, and prone to accidents, as if drunk off the sense of accomplishment. And then, just like that, I loose it. Au revoir, adios. Square one.