We are grateful for the gift of good music. We thank the gods of the string and the bow, of the chord and the meter, of the drum and the stick. We bless the source of our muse, the cause of our happiness and the thief of it. We praise the gods of music to the highest heavens, we listen for a bit, and then we praise them a little more.
Music is our tool. We steal its character. We listen as we write, and we find the words flow. We listen and we see a better version of ourselves; wise, witty, inspired, unable to falter or fail; perfect, immutable, stoic, fickle and chameleon all at once, in part, in full; all of our being, or in all of the parts that matter to us at that moment.
We know we are perfect, and we revel in it. We know we can do no wrong. We know we have not written anything new in a long while; perhaps a revision of some earlier published work, nothing else, but we know that what we are writing will be read with gusto, even if at a certain stage, the point seems to be non-existent.
And then we listen some more.
We are in love with the thought and idea of being in love with thoughts and ideas. We march forward without the fear of the ides. We are basically rambling now, but it makes no difference to us, because we are stuck in it, in the moment, our keyboard going tat-tap-tap; our face plain, yet our minds self-assured that the rubbish we write is impressing us at the current state of our mental process.
We are immortal, we are gods, we are defiant, we are immune to immunity. We are deceived.
We miss when we were younger, and cared less what people thought. We miss the times when we were not inclined to do things that might be perceived as evil or escapism. We beg God for forgiveness for our frailties, and we do not use the normal excuse of his having made us so frail in the first place.
And then we listen some more.
We are happy that we are sad because it makes us believe we are not shallow; that we achieve purpose even in seemingly mundane things; that we were right to push those we love away from our lives so as not to be fettered by the bonds of affection and dependence, and the sometimes debilitating desire for intercourse; conscience-dulled and remorseless.
We are not as innocent as we used to be, but yet, given the many things we have come to know, see and believe, we are not as warped as we ought to.
Now it is four minutes gone and five hundred words later. The music has stopped and we are left alone. We go back to read. We want to edit, we see such nonsense we have written; we want to hide it away in a bottomless pit, but at the top of our minds we have only five words to yell at that thought; raw unrefined, uncaring, defiant and yet strangely satisfying:
“F**k the edit. We post!” ♦
***** inspired by a bout of insomnia, “Vide cor meum”, and one-third of a bottle of wine.
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