Cob webs fill up the walls of this chaotic mind, and the frantic chords sounding off of a rusty guitar make way for comfort. There's a certain intangible truth in a dead man's song.
The magic of it's ringing wisdom. The occult surrounding the thoughts of he who once was man, but now is dead. Or the curious, haunting calm that can only come from slipping into the mischievous couloir of an ever growing past.
The breathless harmony that takes over from the music of the now dead, is enslaving. There is this sweet, seductive silence that fills up inside; with each key gliding into those very veins that were a mere tool just a few moments ago. The succor of his voice, crawling ever so tidily and bursting out of the tips of your fingers and toes. And the satisfying predictability of it all.
There is an aggravating calm in consistency. In what seems to be an almost contorted way-repetition dulls, but consistency, comforts.
Often times, you need some things, to remain constant. A certain way of life, certain patterns, and certain people. Patterns are easy to keep, if you really want to. Lifestyles are easy to maintain, if you try hard enough. But the people, those you can't keep.
So in those many rampageous and muddled moments when the rickety tiles of what is, my only ground, seem to tremble and spiral out of control into a foreseeable lacuna and state of bleak nothingness, I let the dead man speak; and It is through the delectable words in his ghost songs that I am pacified. The predictability of his rehearsed chords, lets me dive into the ocean of his notes and through his words, I find my pattern again. Forgetting the inconsistency of human relations that seem as flighty as my heart.
I let the cursory breeze of this chilly night mingle with his words, feeling comforted, in his mystifying melody.
The magic of it's ringing wisdom. The occult surrounding the thoughts of he who once was man, but now is dead. Or the curious, haunting calm that can only come from slipping into the mischievous couloir of an ever growing past.
The breathless harmony that takes over from the music of the now dead, is enslaving. There is this sweet, seductive silence that fills up inside; with each key gliding into those very veins that were a mere tool just a few moments ago. The succor of his voice, crawling ever so tidily and bursting out of the tips of your fingers and toes. And the satisfying predictability of it all.
There is an aggravating calm in consistency. In what seems to be an almost contorted way-repetition dulls, but consistency, comforts.
Often times, you need some things, to remain constant. A certain way of life, certain patterns, and certain people. Patterns are easy to keep, if you really want to. Lifestyles are easy to maintain, if you try hard enough. But the people, those you can't keep.
So in those many rampageous and muddled moments when the rickety tiles of what is, my only ground, seem to tremble and spiral out of control into a foreseeable lacuna and state of bleak nothingness, I let the dead man speak; and It is through the delectable words in his ghost songs that I am pacified. The predictability of his rehearsed chords, lets me dive into the ocean of his notes and through his words, I find my pattern again. Forgetting the inconsistency of human relations that seem as flighty as my heart.
I let the cursory breeze of this chilly night mingle with his words, feeling comforted, in his mystifying melody.
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