Capricious

15 - White Noise

 "To live is the rarest thing in the world. Most people exist, that is all."
- Oscar Wilde

Maybe it was because I had never felt anything for anyone, that as soon as I felt something for someone, I thought it was everything.

Pain lost through my eyes, as I listen to that melancholic lullaby. Coincidence fluttering blood beats, that's what I am too. Why should I force what does not exist? Forever an adolescent moulding independence from society, I'll never leave this phase within myself. Why are my mirrors sharing cheeks? We should meet again in other lives, you and I, this turn and the next, in air, in fire, in space. We should be, we should be stronger, we should. Breathing clear, but my mind still prickled, a cactus inside-out, whatever I am about. If I can be me, if I can be this way, surely someone else can be too. If only the world was not an ever complicating game of hide and seek, of blending lies with pain on the side.

It works too well, to be as simple as that. But as I look at those around me, I do come to find so few with an artist's mind. Each the same may form a yellow brick road, to discover branches from them through to the encore itself. At night with the violin, playing your sweet music dearly, bow sliding against your taught strings, something so harmonious and intricate expelling so simply. Now we know, we play. Games with body and mind, each other and everyone, as dirty as can be. For we desire nothing but everything we want, and we want for nothing we can live without, to live not alone. Other minds corroded by the marketing of greed, so many losing way, stereotypes and classes in our awe to understand, manipulating how we think by believing in simplicity. Hollywood culture and socialiting, feeding other's pockets to sacrifice ourselves. What have they got you thinking? You conforming fool. Ignorance may be bliss, but to not be the rebel is to be the winner of our own demise. We play not for pay, but to shout and scream, to break our chains, to run free. We mean something. Let go with me, and so can you.

The spotlight. It makes a hypocrite of me. I want it, I hate it. It kills me, it empowers me. I gets me what I want and it takes it away. Illuminating and blinding at the same fucking time.

Patterns in my vision, rings so faint, scratches that I see, symbols reflected back at me. What are they? What perspective stares through my eyes? What am I hiding from myself?

Perhaps it is only the unexpected that truly has the power to penetrate our souls.

Legends of terror, legions afoot, come crawling through my skin. The echo of pain in the piano key, threading slightly as creases sing. Nuclear arasing on the surface of burning glaciers. Whatever word we don't yet call it. Guiltless pleasure siphoned off screaming sounds, beats of the skin rising in the waves, pulling away, secreting bliss. Energy born of absorbing penance. Power there we go.

Tornado's eye in life, yet winds in mind. Surrounded by rigour in life, surrounding calm in mind. They are white noise in both. A metric that has little effect on my life or my mind. Their frequency high, but yet uniform, my own a vagarious battle of change, to feel anything and everything.