I’m a violin.
I don’t even know what to say or how to tell you what I see. I’m going to get lost in time. I’m going to get lost within my eyes. I’m going to get lost within the sounds of life and the static in my ears , and in front of the lined walls-brown-paneling and what’s underneath I can only speculate. I’m going to get lost in space. I’m going to get lost on a dirt road that no longer exists. I’m going to see happiness and just for a second I’m going to the place where my life ends. I see it all, and I’m not sure what the fuss was about. I’m not sure why I got so angry, why I got so mad at all of those people. I’m not sure what the human needs and why we get this chance to fail as much as we do. I don’t know why we make bombs and drop them on children. I don’t know why I write any of this down. I don’t know why you read it, and I don’t know why the rules can’t be broken. I’m not sure how the stars align at the right-time when I look at them, and they look like they’re trying to tell me something. I don’t know what a computer is and why we use them so much. I don’t know why they can’t talk to us yet and why philosophers have went mad for truths that they never leave this planet with.
Anger madness laughter love, and I don’t know why none of this is easier than it should be. I don’t know why we do anything at all. I don’t know what the road is and the sun and the telephone poles that are still there even though nobody has land-lines anymore, and I don’t know why people die and seem to get younger as they finally accept that they are getting towards the end. I don’t know why I wake up with pain and go to bed with pain.
Back there I saw all of the people I’ve wronged far less than they have wronged me, and I wonder why everything was such a fight in the time, and who are these people and who are these memories and why do I feel the need to write myself out of this mess, always trying new forms of fragmentation with the poetry that is already there. Listening to people who have qualification and only the qualification to silently melt away behind closed doors and not on the streets, and where do those who can’t live wash away to, where do the souls go, the humans; where do the people go when they have nothing to die for?
Letters for music lovers and readers of writers who are dying. Life so special, so magical, so real, and I don’t know why it gives me shivers just thinking that I’m, alive, that I have these feelings that might just bring me there inside of this wall of my head, this body that I can never claw out of, and being a person, you only can be one person.
The words magic, some kind of transcendence does happen and I walk there in my dreams seeing love forever, and nobody has to worry about anger and the fight to live and the world is enough, enough against us, but we want more, and so do I, and I don’t know why. I have no right to think that I’m better than my present life, but why? Maybe I am just a poor man with poor ideas….but I feel the stars within space trying and I’m always let down from the butterflies as I’m trying too much to puncture this whole illusion as I feel tears down eyes knowing that I cant do it, and comments from other dishonest humans, and this; this has to mature…
I don’t know how to show you what I see. I’ve never even seen myself.