FROM MUSIC AND MADNESS II

Once in a while, we come across people whose designs are suspect. But because we are human, and for the most part gullible, we easily fall prey to their antagonisms masked by the saccharine and misrepresented. Wolves in sheeps' clothing they come, whether intentional or not, to cast damage on our sense self valuation. Sometimes even they themselves are unaware of this dynamic, but often it is by virtue of a selfishness innate and inherent in all of us. The challenge is to appropriately, precisely and effectively distinguish the genuine from the fallacious, the sincere from the merely solipsistic.


There will always be a tribulations to overcome, hurdles to triumph from, and labyrinths to unlock. For as long as we remain decent, honest, and faithful, eventually the corundum will make itself apparent from the crass of our midst. And all the pain, disappointment, hoodwinking and malevolence of our histories, would seem insignificant and minute.


You have to be whole yourself first, before you can share yourself.

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FROM MUSIC AND MADNESS II


One can never be perfect for another, but two can be perfect for each other.

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FROM MUSIC AND MADNESS II


I long for him, who can unfold me into the frail fragments of truth beneath. Who can see beyond the verbosity of my language, a tacit taxonomy meant to protect the curious and crucial from the false and vociferous, not by faux identification nor by empirical action, but by accession of the clandestine message. I am laid bare now, here, by choice and circumstance. For the solitary method one can find another is by being found himself.

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FROM MUSIC AND MADNESS II


Hold on to this moment, singular and definite, that it may never come to pass again. Like the river ever prescient and foreign, we welcome strangers into the play of our lives as transient actors to the script unwritten and unrehearsed. Make most of the now and the present, for it too, like everything, shall come to pass. So it is for pain and suffering, so shall it be for happiness and pleasure. Because all we will ever have is now.

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FROM MUSIC AND MADNESS II


Because to cry is to release the pain, in all its revolting, unsightly, horrid and definitive translation; the tears becoming the tangible and palpable phenotype of the anguish made physical, apparent and undeniable. We make ourselves believe we are well, denying the pain by the employment of a smile, a smirk, and a tug of shoulder. Thinking that by disallowing the translation of this pain, we deny it its grip of our being, but failing to realize that to let the saltine rivers flow is not succumbing but accepting, for only in the acceptance of the sorrow can we attain serenity.

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FROM MUSIC AND MADNESS II



Maybe it is not the lost and the missing that we long for to come home. But ourselves, that we may find who we are again in the wake of the pain, the tranquil emptiness after the grief has ebbed into its sullen tomb, hibernating for its next opportunity to strike, to remind, to reopen hastily sutured wounds. That for every passing pain of a love lost, we lose a part of ourselves never to be regained. We are pieces of a whole parceled and partial to those who warrant our affection, in the hope that they too would give a bit of themselves to fill what we lack.


A piece of home.


But we cannot come home, for home to us is a concept alien, intangible, and abstract. Until we discover that our home is within, not from without, that it is the absence of the pieces that allows us to be of value, of meaning, and of opportunity. That we can only be a home, if we are one for another.

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FROM MUSIC AND MADNESS II

Sometimes certain episodes in one’s life are too exquisite, singular, and crucial that to remember it pedant and pure allows us to relive it. But to dwell on a moment, a fleeting memory, is to deny the senescent nature of our predicament. That life is ever-changing, and to live is to evolve, triumphant or otherwise. Goodbye’s are for those who do not wish to look back, for those who feel that this here, now, will never happen again. But if you choose not to, the moment can live on, not as a recollection but as a promise, that the striving won’t end.

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FROM MUSIC AND MADNESS II

Because we all must reach that point, a helplessness, that proves how much and deep the investment of emotion has been, proof of us succumbing, conceding, to it. The painful verity is that when this occurs, when you are laid bare by the roadside, your throbbing heart an excruciating evidence of the absoluteness of the affection, you realize that you no longer own that which you long for. That the silence of the night: the long pauses between conversations seem like eternities extending, wrenching, unforgiving. The fragile touch he laid left on your skin is more brand than a memory, and flagrant proof of your own fragility. Like glitter thrown to the wind, its brilliance in midair is but a momentary magnificence, fleeting and pervious to the passing of time, and the changing of hearts.

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FROM MUSIC AND MADNESS II


I used to believe that speaking the same language is requisite to finding true connection, that communication resides in the blanket of words, of thoughts, and of ideas and beliefs. But often, speaking the same language is not enough, because even if there is congruency, there is also an inadequacy, of the language to explore what is really meant, and expound what is actually done.

                          

Somewhere, beyond the distanciation of time, of belief and action, there is a place I can go to. There I am whole once more, and perfection is not an illusion. But I cannot let you in to that place; merely narrate and describe as far as my vocabulary will afford. My reality may be dark and desolate, but there, here, in the words of a language esoteric and lost, I can attempt to take you.

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FROM MUSIC AND MADNESS II

Because we only have one life to live, and to experience it with fear and remorse is not living but existing. One cannot fully connect with another without letting the other in, into who one is, imperfections and all. Vulnerability is a fact of our humanity, and to those who willingly refute this, much will be granted by fate. We can only hope that the divine is forgiving upon us mortals, and that morsels of manna occur once in a while. But how we are to our fellowmen is purely our discretion, and acknowledging their humanity is accepting our own.

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