Throwback + musing. I keep thinking, and remembering, how poetry is the place I find most peace ~ while music appears to be this thing I continually butt heads with. A lifetime sentence I’m too stubborn to bail on. Admittedly, it left a dent the other week. It’s a shapeshifting entity that morphs whenever you think you’ve got your limbs around it. Dreams held by air, while you get all wear and tear, and it has you sinking like a ship. I could get a grip ~ but I can’t put it down; all that love in the book always struggles to meet its better end. And to keep on hoping is to play-pretend. But I can’t stop, even if I wanted to. A way of being so embedded in my bones. That’s why poetry is peace ~ and music is some other beast. That beautiful and frustrating thing; the target of too much attention. All from first arrival, and I’m sure, until final destination. Maybe best to say, it spends all of its time shaping me…
I’m in an odd space, anyway. It’s coming up to mum’s birthday and I think about all she did in her life and where it all went. The book she poured every ounce of herself into sits quietly within the waiting room of my stuffy little harddrive, keeping me held in a purgatory that I push to different parts of my mind, like food on a plate I can't stomach to contemplate. And when I stop focussing on my own world for a while, it winks; but I can’t smile). It reminds me of the enormity of everything and nothing all at once, and it keeps me riddling around what “meaning” really means. What we inject into what matters, while “meaningless” surrounds - preying quietly like a yawning black hole. What are we without our goal? When all that is left is memory, within the vaults of an organ? All we have is a measly choice to make our own meaning. To make room for the timelessness of much deeper feeling. That love that lasts long after loved ones have passed. The love that loyally waits for us within a song. That’s all we have - outside the mundanities of just existing. That black cloth can try cover the sky but the will of stars will never stop. Even in darkness, they turn up bright with promises of hope. Even if they we can’t yet see it in its undiluted, saturating glory.
🌌
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