I dispell the madness by forgetting all the rules
You say I follow in the footsteps of pre-existing fools
Begging vultures to bury off my head
This is the hard life of the beautifully depressed. — Down, “Beautifully Depressed”
Beautifully damaged. Those are my favorite type of people.
I like understanding people, especially people who intrigue me. Like reading the lines of an old man’s face or counting the tears old women cry – they’re interesting because they’re real, because they’re earned, because they are life’s battle scars and they scream “I’m still here!”
Interesting and intrigue is such a messed up way of saying it. It’s not like I want to “figure them out” just so I can add another notch to my belt or feel some sense of accomplishment or one-upmanship that seems to dominate our current mode of thinking.
No, more like, this whole mess is a tapestry and I want all the threads, the blacks, the whites and all the grey in between to fill out the picture. Cause I want to know. To make it make sense.
I’m desperately trying to understand it all — to make it make sense when nothing makes sense. Even the damn sun rising in the morning makes no sense anymore. The words exchanged between two people, the glances, the looks, the touches. What are you? Why are you there? You…. make … no sense to me. And it’s killing me.
Perfect people suck. Nearly perfect people are just as bad; they’re not interesting.
I know. I won’t say I always understand, but … I know. Your road isn’t my road but our paths are fraught with similar topography.
Barflies and nighthawks at the diner — life’s discarded and forgotten scrounging to eek out an existence. To make it — maybe with a bit of this and hopefully with some of that.
There are the slights and hurts, imagined and real. Some deep, some on the surface. Some so deep we bury them around masks and words and defense mechanisms. All while those who could be love are kept at arm’s distance.
Nothing in nature makes sense. Very little is ever in perfect symmetry or accord. It’s all these dissonant chords, progressions of minors and majors and flats and things that don’t fit, that build to this glorious cacophony of sound and fury. And they signify something as long as you’re watching.
It’s amazing, it really is and it’ll bring a tear to your eye for the sheer splendor and magic. Magic — unlike anything we can reasonably explain – I don’t want the world explained, but I want to understand.
Life is a symphony. All movements are represented with the allegros, the adagios the legatos and the andantes. But no one even wants to hear the chords that don’t fit the pattern.
Patterns — something we understand and can be easily quantified and qualified and stored away in whatever little box we’ve determined it needs to fit.
Did you know music can be boiled down to math? Or, at a minimum, music that is generally accepted to be pleasing to the ear – it’s all math, the one-three-four chord progression or the one-three-five chord shape … math.
But like those so-called pleasing to the human ear constructs, there’s a finite number of sounds that can be produced. Everything in between is dissonant.
Dissonant is where the true symphony is. Where life actually takes place and the most interesting, the most beautiful take place, the plane of interaction.