pastiche

Fragments. A sign of our times. This is the age of the frayed-ended people.

The Friend: Lost Frequencies. Am I alive or dead?

The daughter: Very grown up indeed.

My new speakers: A floating song and I are playing a game of cat and mouse. Dodge and push away, I’d rather anything than be found by this dogged strand of thought. Then suddenly, I give in and let the song come sit with me. A deep breath of silence… and the music of bleeding violins fill my room. My tragedies are crying themselves out. But I stand outside and watch.

The scientist: Questions of science and progress do not speak as loud as my heart (quote-unquote)

The artist: Gently stirring beast.

The magic wand: I breathe music into a hollow piece of wood. A finger up and another down… and a song is strung together. I’m a magician. Dreadful paradise…so disconnected from anything. I can’t leave this place any more. My addictions are not obvious to anyone but me. But I am, literally, being eaten up. In sometime, I’ll be no more. A blank space on a page of scattered word-carcasses

Problems: Over dramatized in self absorption.

Bed time: I find myself watching the moaning night song unfold. First there is a dusty ceiling, the whipping blades of a fan and dancing cobwebs. Then it falls through, to blackness and blueness, a sky thronging with swinging nebulae, shimmering clouds and a shy, self conscious moon, inadvertently put into the spotlight. Stars… twinkle. It’s a spectacular show and I am honored to witness it. The higher up I go, the denser it gets. I am found.

Responsibility: Far better than hope.