Gemeinsam werden wir das Ende der Welt

“What the caterpillar calls the end of the world, the master calls a butterfly.”
Richard Bach (American Writer, author of 'Jonathan Livingston Seagull', b.1936)

And he built it, and left on a rocket, to watch it from above - just to watch the people burn it down to the ground.

With patience, he watched; watched it all fade away. It burnt; piece by piece, portion by portion. In his eyes - sorrow; but, his heart content

With his needle, he pricked at the heart of the sun.

And he found not pain, but, a hollow stud

The stars moved into the black. Past the purple haze.

And pulled him along. To see the other end

And then, he saw. The wavelength of existence.

It left him in awe. The complexity of it; yet, the simplicity. Could it be? Dumbfounded, and confused. He asked the question, "How?"

Intricate. Beautiful. Laced with passion. A toxic yearning for love.

And so, he deliberated; considered it carefully. Could it be? Is it true? But, of course! The elements that make up Existence.

In front of his beady forehead, the map of existence. The strings of life. The stories of Beyond. The answers to "what was before?"

With his fingers, he traced what he could not see. It was all too much; too abrupt, too late. He tried to get it back. Screamed in vain. Banged on the invisible doors, and pulled, at the intangible bars, that imprisoned him.

And before his eyes, there started to spin a white. An all surrounding white.
Right. Left. Above. Below.

It embraced him. Took him under, and numbed his pain. All was peaceful now. With this white drug, he could be brave.

He dives into the white. White.

The white takes over. Memories white-washed. Erased. All is white. AllisWhite.

He transforms.

The white becomes a part of him. Does he lose his sanity? Or has he finally gained it?

He is no longer he. Free of the demarcations of worldy thought.
Free from fleshy constrictions

He is not bound by any limitations; no more. He is free from his weak mortal body.

Going. Going. Going. Going. Gone.

It is beautiful.

---
Scooby & Flappy

Far Beyond Forever

Hello, friend. Lovely friend.

Let me touch - skin, smooth. Tickle - senses fail.

Watch me, friend, from the tower of your gunship.

Travel the skies, friend. Inhale the clouds of our youth. Leap off. 

Static. I feel. So good. Nice. To know you. 

Crescendo.

Thank You, Space Expert

Liar.

It's what I want to write on my forehead, with a bold black marker.

Bastard.

It's already written there, in some invisible ink, drawn from the blood of a dying marcupial.

Dog.

It's what people should see.

Innocent.

It's what people see.

Deception.

It's my functioning.

Manipulation.

It's how I choose to use it.

Language.

It's what I manipulate.

Emotion.

It's what's manipulated.

Need.

It's what I fulfill.

Heart.

It's what I break.

Hopeless.

It's what I agree to being.

Hope-giving.

It's what I surprisingly am.

Cornflake Wings

Wish me farewell, child of the moon.

Sprinkle on my hands your father's dust.

Watch me float in every direction, like some sedated cougar.

We are a newborn race - revolving around blueberry pancakes,

And if I were the fire, I'd be called a fool in the rain.

Let me write out your world in binary.

Let me mistype a 0 instead of a 1, and watch it mutate into something beautiful.

May I transform your dystopia into my redlight district?

Join hands with I, and discover the wavelength of love.

iIi

Titles. Labels. Names. Slut. Bitch. Whore.
You know where I encounter these?

In the car. On the street. EVERYWHERE.

"Look at her, with her tight pants, plunging neck-line, and back-showing top - she must be a *insert derogatory female word here*."

She must be. Of course. How can she not be? Why, even if the universe were to implode, and become cellestial nothing, she would still be it. She would still be what you "know" she is. 

An incogurent splatter on the female chormosome. Decency transmutated into lust, glutton, & passion.

A banana with purple seeds. A pink apple. A coloured shadow.

Do you know me? Do I know you? Do you know I? Do I know I?

See me on the street, and you'll brand me a slut. I know it. Why? The sensual scent of my hair? The feminity of my physical appearance? The milky colour of my skin? The hourglass?

I know it.

Give me a title. I'm dying for it. After all, we all have our place in the world. Give me mine now! NOW! 

My title! I want it. I like it. Whatever it is. It surrounds me like a warm orange glow. It looks over me when I sleep at night.

I'll just go back to sleep. Sleep. Into my inner world. 
Inner sanctum? No. Too cheesy.

No. My inner world. Controlled by the miles of micoscopic threads running inside me.

I like it. 

I Forgot To Title This

Take a stone. Any stone. Round. Red. Sharp. Brown. White. Sandy.
Add into its existence an irradiated molecule of human emotion.
Watch the nucleus melt into the stone, like some gluttonous queen being sucked into the depth of a hundred mattress bed, by her organic companions.
Neon blue pulses I see. Do you see? I see.
Snaking into the core.
Neon blue pulses I see. Around a globe of yellow.
Or is it some far away neighbour of orange.
War, I see.
Neon blue. Orange. Yellow. Blue. Yellow. Yellow. Orange. Pink. Blue. Blue. Blue.
Watch the stone.
Does it move when you look into its eyes?
Does it jolt when you touch it?
Do you see tears when you scream at it?

Take a stone. Add into its existence an irradiated molecule of human emotion. Watch it become I.

TOTD #1

How many musicians does it take to screw a lightbulb?

8.

1 to do it, and 7 to say they can do it better.

Freud said,“...The ego is that part of the id which has been modified by the direct influence of the external world ... The ego represents what may be called reason and common sense, in contrast to the id, which contains the passions ... in its relation to the id it is like a man on horseback, who has to hold in check the superior strength of the horse; with this difference, that the rider tries to do so with his own strength, while the ego uses borrowed forces [Freud, The Ego and the Id (1923)]”

In modern-day society, ego has many meanings. It could mean one’s self-esteem; an inflated sense of self-worth; or, in philosophical terms, one’s self.

Enough of the psychology lesson, on with the actual meaning of the post.

Those of you, who have had the opportunity to mingle with musicians, will have noticed on phenomenon common to most. Their behemoth, and leviathan -like ego. Each musicians tries to bash, and out-do, the other (who plays the same instrument as them) with relentless energy. I, myself, not so long ago, was one of these. Whenever I heard my friends talk about X's guitar playing, or Y's fluidity, I would feel a violent eruption inside me, and spit out venom-filled lines, such as, "That wanker has no idea what he's doing!" or, "Please, I could beat him, and beat my meat at the same time!"

However, with the never-pausing progression of time, I realized how flawed my ways were. Some of the players, most of whom I still don't share common ground on music with, after conversing, showed a unique sense of music, which helped me grow musically. That's when I accepted my position as a musician, and reality struck. Although I threw their asses into the pit with knowledge of music theory, and techniques, there was a reason these people had more mass-appeal than myself. Experience. While I had it all in my head, these people had done it practically. Whether they possessed the same knowledge as myself, or had just grown aurally, I don't know. They were better than me, and I had to accept it. The more the denied the facts, like a stringy little nihil, the more I was deceiving myself.

Upon acceptance, I felt an increased dedication to the art, and practiced harder. Became better.

I believe that, one of the reasons for the musician's ego is the subconscious, or sometimes conscious, belief that no one has put as much dedication, time, sweat, tears, and energy into their art as you. This distorts one's understanding of oneself's actual ability, and there you go, your head in the skies. Believe me, some of the top musicians of the world, who seem to be at eternal One with their instrument, and seem to possess a natural ability for it, have been quoted to practice "25 hours a day"=P.

So, tell me, what are your 4-5 practice segments in front of that.

The reason for the existence of such people, in my opinion, is to minimize the musician's ego, wrap it up, and ship it off to Deadegoland.

Just because you've reached a certain pinnacle of playing doesn't mean that you go around boasting, like a pretencious little prick. Do you want someone to melt your face infront of hundreds of people? No. If you're good, good! People will realize it on their own. If you go around little a little, pricky fairy, "So, can anyone of you play in G# minor, modulate to the Locrian, and use the plagal cadence to end the piece?"

Yes. Someone can. And he/she will throw you on your ass.

To sum up, enjoy music, respect other musicians, and see how they'll respect you back. It is a nice feeling. It really is. =P