Thursday, April 9
Letter to Insanity.
Something beautiful is always to me a means of sadness and interrupted morale. I cannot seem to explain, but by finding beauty it has always fallen to me the undeviating curse of some intense sadness, yet we carry on and find something, making this beauty know to others. Even though in it`s most subtle ways of expression. They seem to find joy and pleasure from this, but it seems as though the totality of them in their souls laugh at us. Cursing us to become mere images of normality. Always bearing the fruits of mankind, and what they desire to see. Those close to us, the ones far away. My soul now has come to a point where it cannot be suppressed any longer. I feel as though I have been killed slowly by society, my whole lifetime. Every step is a pain full one, yet I kept on walking until this far. It is like new leather shoes, at first they are nice, then you wear them and they start to hurt, they hurt even more, until one day you realise there is no more pain. Then I could ask, is it that we just do not feel the pain anymore, but it is still there? In my life I have become numb to this pain, merely telling myself that this too shall pass. Putting a blindfold on, and treading along. Being led by sounds and images of imagination. Trying to see the world as a picture you have in your imagination. Becoming by force that that I don`t want to be. Could that be the cause of thing I didn`t see, or is due to the fact that I walked in this world consuming its normality's. Although in the same breath I could say I have become what I am, and only to change it and redirect myself into the path I want to walk. Imagine the possibilities if I could free myself from this, and become the person I should have been by now.
The Ecstasy of my being, the pure gravity therein weighs me down, yet pulls me up into a state of mind where creativity cannot be shared fast enough for the means of translation known is just not efficient to me. Bountifully my heart is, and filled with so much more than ordinary things. The love for my violin, and music and anything creative. A simple curved line can be beautiful, depending on so many factors though. Knowledge escapes us, myself, and my heart becomes weary and fills my eyes with tears as I see the masses trampling along, consuming and not finding the mere thing that drives us. I feel a deep pain, for myself and others, I wish to myself that I could express this thing inside of me, yet the means and ways are to elaborate for men of this place. And I would be crucified like a Jean de Arc for the extremity and blindness of ordinary men. The mere gesture of sanity would be trampled by the consuming masses, and there would only be the industrialist and the corporates.
Maybe my energy in this world is to small a thought, yet it does tell a tale of great significance. Then I find myself and my violin to be one, yet separated for this world, longing to be heard and grow and become more. To express the mere songs of joy and awe, to fall on the ears of a silent audience. To walk and stand tall, naked to the world, silent and to be the beauty of the moon by night, and be enthralled by the gracefulness of wonderful things.
And then again, my soul gets stung by the prick of this lives mere insanity. My creativity left to bleed and slowly die a bitter painful death.