dead text
there seems to be something that connects us. all things. like an eternal tide that refuses to do anything except for flow. it manifests in poetry, music, and all the things to which we tap into some inner energy that explodes outwards in a way that is incalculable. akin to all the worlds forms being projected at once, every experience and interaction and stimuli all on display and then condensed into one stream of radiant energy. a friend told me and showed me a jazz performance where to solo was so beautiful that the person who was supposed to do the next solo up and left. he knew that he could never add to it. the ability to see such radiance, to tap into it, and for others to know it so well that they can understand their own limits in relation to it, this is incredible to me.
if music can exist than goddamnt so can god. there are higher things, things that cannot be explained, that pulsate constantly.
the city has its own jazz, one that academics and writers merely kill with their cursive. i know understand why generations upon generations, from homer to shakespere to indigenous groups, refused to have their stories written down. all love lives in oral history. which is to say that history is the history of dead text. to compose is to capture. why must we capture eternity instead of letting it capture us. i think back to "shadow man" by noname. a line.
"bless the nightingale - darkness keep you well"
when spoke aloud these two rhyme, or rather their sounds run parallel. both the thought and the form sync in perfect harmony to convey the same beautiful emotion with two different words. this is rendered meaningless when you read it, but beautiful when you feel it. i feel this way about certain rappers or jazz artists who so eloquently expand the horizon of what we thought was possible with a few syllables. all is rendered meaningless in its presense. or rather, the meaning in all things shines so clearly that we remember why and what things matter. all these beautiful things.
this is true of conversations too. there is a moment at which i get someones number and they begin to text me. so suave in person, the lack of a face melts away my confidence. how do i responde? and with what? my life is so boring when others text me. i have nothing to offer but perspective, but that only means something when you are near each other. all i can send you is dead text, i'm sorry. somehow letters have more life to them, the pain of the writing gives way to words that bloom. ink fuels the flowers, let them grow in your ears. but even then it is nothing in comparison to talking. speaking. playing. breathing. with others and lovers and divinity and everyone ever. we are so intimately connected on every level, all of us. why can't we see that? it is almost like i can see the connection, it is so thick and clear.
to compose is to capture. so let me remain a fugitive, always in the excess of articulation and sitting in the cracks of measure and metrics. enthralled within the mystery of life i shall remain. darkness keep you well.
if music can exist than goddamnt so can god. there are higher things, things that cannot be explained, that pulsate constantly.
the city has its own jazz, one that academics and writers merely kill with their cursive. i know understand why generations upon generations, from homer to shakespere to indigenous groups, refused to have their stories written down. all love lives in oral history. which is to say that history is the history of dead text. to compose is to capture. why must we capture eternity instead of letting it capture us. i think back to "shadow man" by noname. a line.
"bless the nightingale - darkness keep you well"
when spoke aloud these two rhyme, or rather their sounds run parallel. both the thought and the form sync in perfect harmony to convey the same beautiful emotion with two different words. this is rendered meaningless when you read it, but beautiful when you feel it. i feel this way about certain rappers or jazz artists who so eloquently expand the horizon of what we thought was possible with a few syllables. all is rendered meaningless in its presense. or rather, the meaning in all things shines so clearly that we remember why and what things matter. all these beautiful things.
this is true of conversations too. there is a moment at which i get someones number and they begin to text me. so suave in person, the lack of a face melts away my confidence. how do i responde? and with what? my life is so boring when others text me. i have nothing to offer but perspective, but that only means something when you are near each other. all i can send you is dead text, i'm sorry. somehow letters have more life to them, the pain of the writing gives way to words that bloom. ink fuels the flowers, let them grow in your ears. but even then it is nothing in comparison to talking. speaking. playing. breathing. with others and lovers and divinity and everyone ever. we are so intimately connected on every level, all of us. why can't we see that? it is almost like i can see the connection, it is so thick and clear.
to compose is to capture. so let me remain a fugitive, always in the excess of articulation and sitting in the cracks of measure and metrics. enthralled within the mystery of life i shall remain. darkness keep you well.
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