Our Own Unsuspecting Selves

Often I have found myself unable to write to music with words. It happens in almost the same way I watch the television; I must change the channel if the entire program has already been captured and packaged for my unloosening. I need what is yet to be discovered, and in the way we create images in our brains from the deepest of delicately written contexts, I want my music to open my mind to a universe of opportunity. I want it to broaden the spectrum, to beg of me that it be captured upon sheet; to be expressed in such a way as to be, if fleeting, understood. And if music is but captured in and of itself, like a photograph; an elicit moment of human history, through venue of time, however tantalizing or expressive, boxed into a conducted sequence of waves and numbers that stir our eardrums, our heartbeats, our brains and souls alike; then both the linguistic articulation of such a spectacle, such a wondrous phenomena, and its echoed sibling, dance together eloquently in the sphere of artistic harmony; waving their hands through the halls and corridors within our minds, synthesizing the communicable with the incommunicable, teasing our thoughts with our counter-thoughts. They press upon us, imposing an emotive response that shames us in the most constructively human way; our ability to mirror the natural feelings through the manipulation of physical instruments, including our pens and pencils, to our own unsuspecting selves, force-feeding the throat of integrity to be realised and further; imposed. This place, this musical realm, the idyllic voice of God, uplifts my mind in such a way as to never have imagined ground! Never can the sea be land-locking me, nor can its mighty presence fail! It is now but a paradoxical testament of whether the chicken came first, or the egg; can the sound be exhibited without the word, or the word without the sound? For frequently, my mind rests in this transcended place of solace, but more frequent does my tongue speak it to be true, and to, like the prose proprietor, contextualise what it means through the mirror. I cannot hear without speaking of it, or thinking of it; it is all a variable of my mind’s addiction to language. Nothing comes to me but through the vehicle of linguistic communication, and thus to coat the car with beautiful propositions whilst the car travels through the illogical, intangible, and completely abstract land of music is quite an astonishing endeavour; and thus, a peace must first be provided. No words can before occupy its magical realm, as much as one buys a canvas upon which something has already been painted. In that sense, I consume music with the motivation to paint upon it! I do so to begin to attempt that synthesis, that coalescence of ubiquitous phenomena that taunts us, glaring within those preposterous mirrors, to unknowingly accept the ability to feel, and the nature of humanity to do so.