Madness of Meaning

I’m no longer sure.

I’ve let myself down.

I whole-heartedly screamed “I’ll never give up”

I turned

and I got swallowed in the grey world around me.

The prophecy of a secret garden no longer holds

and before I encrypt this message

I’d like to recreate that certainty I often acquire when writing.

Before I lose it forever again, I’d like to know again, if only for a brief moment the meaning.

I live a half-life. Somehow only my body has managed to survive. My mind refuses to believe in the essence of the soul, it goes against reason and the dogma of self-loathing and masochism –and we simply can’t have that.

The state of the tool is trivial, it can run on low quality fuel, as long as it works, walks and shuffles through life until it ends.

But what then? What’s the point, if the end offers a mystifying, magical concept, so much so that life pales in comparison –death seems almost beautiful. The colour that is death, the absence of colour to some, seems sweeter than the million shades of grey that life is.

“There is another world,

there is a better world,

oh there must be.”

I could let go, but I hold on to the possibility of magic.

Some possibilities are inconceivable: true, lasting, unconditional love; selflessness; the existence of God.

The part of me that hasn’t relinquished to total decay and to the absence of human consciousness (perhaps, the pinky?) holds onto the notion, the possibility, the dream of a better place, of magical concepts like destiny, heroism, greatness.

Those things we imagine out of proportions when we tag them to the mysterious faces of our idols. Suddenly, their suffering, their turmoil and achievement is no longer of human proportions. They’re simply untouchable.

I can’t place the magic, not in the hands or hearts of people. Where does music come from? It can’t come from the fingers of a mere mortal, it can’t be formed on paper or in the mind of a prodigious person. Its source is divine.

Who said the beauty of the human spirit is in its contradiction? So is the ugliness.

Lyrics are misguided, they can freely describe ludicrous feelings of fleeting infatuation, clichéd analogies and hyperboles attempting to recount hormonally induced emotions, or the most primitive desire, disguised with clever euphemisms for the mere act of fucking. But melody… melody is untainted. It remains universal, transcendent of both sadness, nostalgia, hope, faith, inspiration and joy.

I don’t understand art, not do I care for it. My talent for drawing is wasted in my hands.

I understand the technical necessity of language and how it can be creatively manipulated to both expel an emotion and to induce it.

But music is beyond me. And except for admiration and love for the instruments that produce it, I rarely feel the same reverence for the humans “responsible” for its melodic composition. I prefer to remain in the dark when it comes to lyrics, artists, their appearance, their characters. I selfishly long for their voices and melodies to be mine and mine alone, to tell stories of my sadness and to comfort me with hope. I only love music sang in languages I don’t understand.

The only thing that can be truly flawless is music. It’s enough for me to hold on to this stark existence, even living in a grey world that’s inhabited by lowly humans that overpower beauty with imperfection, selfishness, hate, war and destruction. I can’t love myself because I hate them. I am one of them, therefore I hate myself.

I can’t afford myself luxuries like happiness and self-fulfilment, not to mention living in the ecstasy of music.

I keep getting stuck. My body and mind are in complete conflict. Without the soul, a mediating factor, they will continue fighting for control. The body wishes to survive, it even desires to thrive; my mind sees no point.

“Flush it all down, ma, please flush it all away”

I can’t find a purpose. I don’t have a good enough “why” to explain my need to exist. Living for the sake of survival, for the sake of reproduction and continuation of this destructive, lowly species, for the daily pleasure of feeding and fucking, is that enough?

According to my findings: there must be another force that drives us to live.

It isn’t love, or the misconception that you are in love. When I was “in love” I still wanted to die.

It isn’t the pursuit of happiness, especially when you’ve discovered happiness lies in ignorance and that it isn’t achievable through the predictable means (money, friends, love, success, attractiveness and health).

Is it optimism? I’d rather live in bitter reality than be happy and delusional.

Hold on,

The Secret Garden.

The superb capability of the mind to produce its reality, either in perception of the external world or in the total surrender to an alternate, imagined reality.

I’ve done both, and though happiness can be experienced, its effect dissipates and is quickly replaced with bitterness once you realize your body still lives in the grey world you’re trying to escape.

I’m out of ideas.

Until I find a reason, I anticipate many days, weeks, months, years of half-living.

“Excuse me, I apologize. It seems to last for hours, it seems to last for days.”

But I still believe in music.

“it’s easier to believe

in this sweet madness

oh this glorious sadness

that brings me to my knees.”

One Response to “Madness of Meaning”

  1. Bernard Andrews Says:

    it seems dark in your half-lit half-life… but also very beautiful

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