music

Holding my guitar in my hands, I watch the world. As I pluck strings, my mind wanders. It’s there, but not there. Every feeling passing through me is because of the music. But the feelings aren’t the music itself. It’s like sitting in a glass bottomed boat, looking into the ocean underneath your feet. I feel pain, anger, hatred, jealousy, love, beauty, torment, life, death, happiness, sickness, torture, envy, lust. It’s all there. But I feel it behind the protective shell of the music. They are like the essence of the emotion or the feeling, without actual involvement. I can feel what it feels like to be envious, not feel envy itself. A subtle difference, but a salient one.

A journey. Sitting in my room, playing my guitar, I travel all over the world. A single note could change where I am, what I’m doing, what I feel. A simple scale could have me sitting in a Chinese paddy field, an intangible observer. Just a change in the tempo, could have me all alone in the middle of the Sahara. Another scale could have feeling the sun and a gentle breeze of the Savanna. An addition of a note could have me sitting at home, in my bed, under my covers, and then suddenly the roofs gone, and I’m watching the stars. Mountains appear around me, it gets cold, the wind gets chilly, and then without warning, trees begin to sprout ever, supplanting the mountains, and a thick canopy forms overhead, and I’m in a rainforest. The only difference between my imaginary rainforest and a real one, is that mine is deathly quiet except for the gentle music that inspired the scence.

Pain. I feel a sharp pain in my heart. I know no solace in darkness or in company. Restless, I pick up my guitar. Face clenched, I lose myself in what I’m doing. Like a blind man running through a brothel guided only by scent, I run through my music. I stumble, I fall, I trip, but I don’t stop. I can’t stop. I know I have to reach somewhere, I know I have to expend what’s inside me or I’ll explode, I know I must do something, and I play. Mistakes lose their significance, as the raw emotion gets transferred. No one listens; I wouldn’t let anyone, but should anyone have, I would like to believe they would cry. I cry. I scream. I yell. I shout. I grimace. But everything is siphoned into the guitar. My face is expressionless. My body is motionless except for my hands.

Finally. I ask myself. I can do all this. I can journey, I can escape, I can watch, I can feel without feeling. I can do all this. But is it of any use? What does it give me? Something that I am dependent on. Something that I need. When you have something, the greatest fear you have is losing it. When you have something you need, that you cherish, that you require for survival, that fear becomes psychotic. To love, I must surrender myself to this paradox. Is it worth it?